He would like not to kill. He would like
what he imagines other men have,
instead of this red compulsion. Why do the women
fail him and die badly? He would like to kill them gently,
finger by finger and with great tenderness, so that
at the end they would melt into him
with gratitude for his skill and the final pleasure
he still believes he could bring them
if only they would accept him,
but they scream too much and make him angry.
Then he goes for the soul, rummaging
in their flesh for it, despotic with self-pity,
hunting among the nerves and the shards
of their faces for the one thing
he needs to live, and lost
back there in the poplar and spruce forest
in the watery moonlight, where his young bride,
pale but only a little frightened,
her hands glimmering with his own approaching
death, gropes her way towards him
along the obscure path, from white stone
to white stone, ignorant and singing,
dreaming of him as he is.
Folks want to blame someone for gals like us. “Her daddy was unkind” or “some fella broke her heart”. Hogwash. You and me’ve always been like this. Always a little removed. Always…dreaming. Of higher, further, faster…more. Always more. We came into the world spittin’ mad, running full bore… To or from what, I ain’t never been able to tell. Over the years, I’ve come to think of these particular traits as the shared attributes of a chosen people…. The Lord put us here to punch holes in the sky. And when a soul is born with that kind of purpose…it’ll damn sure find a way. We’re gonna get where we’re going, you and me. Death and indignity, be damned…we’ll get there…and we will be the stars we were always meant to be.
Everything changes. Everything is temporary, except for the sky. When you find yourself caught up in the horrors or heroes of a lifetime, look up. Don’t look down. That which is beneath our feet is liquid, but the sky, the sky is solid, constant, ever ready and ever hopeful that the sun will rise in the morning and the moon will rise at night. They don’t really set, you know. They’re always rising, just rising for someone else.
Namor has a personality that you can describe without ever mentioning that he’s a fish-man with wings on his ankles. He’s a king and he acts like it, he’s got this arrogance and swagger that make him fun to read about. He’s a guy who will show up to fight a monster with the Hulk and Dr. Strange, but also might roll up into New York, punch the Thing through a wall, try to f**k somebody’s wife, and then act like you’re the dick when you call him on it.
I must learn to love the fool in me - the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries.