MagnetOde, Final

When Biology’s genius botchology 
doodled Salvadordarwinny winners, 
when gammy gamete of his gamma mamma
& Sellarfield spoff from his papa’s 
photonfried scrotum
Magneto’s mum’s doctor ordered ultrasound butcher’s 
& then Doc gollygoshed,
‘You’ve got the ruthless idol to a whole 
evil brotherhood of Rugrats of Rutherford 
up there, Mrs.Lehnsherr, my dear!’ 
The doctor called his doctor,
who called the police, 
who called Captain Beany,
who called federal forces 
– ‘fraidypigs who fingered an all-time rut in resources – 
& called Supercynic, who didn’t buy it & b’sides 
had no pro-human bias,
but decades later mentioned it in bed 
to Missus Martian Manhunter, 
who called Martian Manhunter,
who was in a gay bar on Mars, 
hunting a good Martian man. 
But some little green queen 
who’d probed down Soho in the past,
flying low, cruising in his Yoo-hoo.F.O., 
a humane Martian, he called the Earth Embassy, 
who called the United Nations,
who called a conference of capitulation, 
& now all call Magneto 
'Maestro di Mondo Mucho Magnifico Neato', 
or 'my liege' to his friends.

But had my wish been written in redshifting ink
for express delivery,
if Hermes or the Angel of The Presence  
might retroject my entreaty on their 
return journey, addressed to God in the prime 
of Her divine storge, a cheeky aeon or so 
after She bled light districts,
if my prayer had a prayer of not 
being under Her radar (all the others were),
but it could air on God’s baby monitor 
back when She provided sixdaycare 
(before the expansion of Her postnatal 
depression spayed the Universe into Deism),
then off my mag-knees,toes,  
I'd arise, His Antigrav Magjesty,
a twinkle twinkle Stan Leethal story 
of the mutie Malcolm X 
X'd w/ Uri Geller on roids.
A steely manly overman of steel,
superheel whose acierated heart turning 
antihero cannot heal, only anneal.

But I know me & I'd most likely 
cheapen that mantle purpureal,
coz if Magneto was me, he’d be more 
of a perennial underchiever l/ Max Dillon,
(tho' I'm not pennin' an 'ElectrOde').
O I'd no doubt squander those meaty mutie superpowers, 
demean the fundamental force at my disposal,  
falling straight from infamy right into 
ignominy, purloining perv shelves,
jamphlets, jugmags, skinzines, 
The Daily Inthealtogether 
& other cumics such as The Creamo & The Randy 
all getting hoverhoovered out of the pornershop
window by a grumblemagnetter, 
dirty old pied piper of purty dollpaper,
attracting flat stacked girls,
by their pierced creases 
metallokinetically seized, 
as if by a sudden unnatural breeze, 
or some poltergeist tealeaf who can’t decline 
his deadman’s diamondcutter.
I’d be Magneto bathos 
reduced to a royal purple rainmacked beckoner 
of centrefolds’ staples.

Notso twinkle twinkle Stan Leethal story 
of the mutie Malcolm X 
X'd w/ Uri Geller on roids after all.
But now I’ve wondered what you are, Magneto: 
finito.