Mordecai Batwing

Bleak, unremitting darkness envelops me
And sends me to the devil, to visit he
For the sins I’ve done, implicitly
The girl I love, she glistens, she
Laughs as I fall into the abyss
Don’t I deserve any more than this?
Her face it cries tears like pearls
Our life together before me unfurls
And the blades that dig into my skin
Let out the pain and secrets within
The screams that cry from my black heart
Your lies that rip, tear me apart
My heart cries your mascara
Searching for fish in the Sahara
And when my hallowed breath runs last
You’re my past that comes to pass
Two red roses sitting on my coffin,
The wind blows, leaving only one-

An interruption.

Instead of the audiovisual delights provided by the imagery in the poem, the camera pans to a teenager, who can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, reciting his poetry to the crowd. This teenager is clad in black, his brand design t-shirt underneath his black hoodie containing a faux-witticism slogan, his jeans are designer and skinny, and you can easily see the outline of his new iPhone in his left jean pocket. His hair, dyed black, shines in the spotlight that is highlighting his features to the crowd below. The crowd, save for one member, are sitting, with bored expressions on their faces. The one member who is not sitting, is of course, standing, and with an expression on their face that reveals that they are not amused by the proceedings in front of them. They are in fact, tired of the display unfolding before them. They are never named, for they are only a crowd member, a naysayer against the teen, and their only role in this is to be that. They only appear on the periphery of the camera, as it still focuses on the teenager clad in black on stage.

Look, the crowd member begins, as much as I hate to stop anyone and change the focus, but, not only is your poem terrible, but it’s grammatically and generally broken, lacks any coherent form or rhyming structure, and-
You’re just saying that because you don’t understand, comes the reply from on stage, you don’t understand what it’s like to be me.
But that’s just the thing. I do know, but when I was your age, I didn’t spend all of my time wallowing in my own self pity, writing depressing poetry about how the world doesn’t understand me, I spent that time trying to improve myself, instead of letting everything slowly get to me. If you spent that time trying to make yourself better, than let everything get you down, you wouldn’t be here boring the tits off of us with your crappy, self-aware writing, Mordor-

Mordecai Batwing, quips the teenager. The naysayer visibly winces. What kind of stupid name is that? It’s a name that’s obviously too real for you, the response seems to be.

The irony of the statement is not as evident to the teenager as it should be. A teenager putting on a created image to a bunch of people who don’t care. They’re not his audience, though it’s arguable who, if anyone, is. This isn’t what he is at all, but this is what he would like to be. This subtext is pretty much lost on this teenager, who is still deep in an argument he thinks he’s winning. He’ll go home, write a sarcastic statement on his Facebook, his Twitter (if he can keep his supposed wit under one hundred and forty characters) and even his blog. The one no one reads. He’ll show this naysayer, when Mordecai Batwing sweeps the world with his book of poetry, his gothic-slash-emo rock band he formed that he writes and plays guitar for, and his novel that he’s working on, with a protagonist that’s just a thinly veiled idealistic version of himself living a life he wishes he could lead. In a fantasy world with gothic creatures, vampires and dragons, heavily styled after his favourite writers, of course.

Are they still talking? The fake stands there, pretending like he’s not caring, or even listening to what the hater is saying to him. Inside, however, the genuine criticism and the unneeded insults are getting to him, and making him feel terrible. He’s holding back tears. He can’t handle this, as much as his demeanour suggests that he wants to be hated, that he is making this to cause anger and disapproval. He just wants everyone to think he’s amazing, he wants success, and the only way he thinks he can do it is to hide behind this image, to act and dress this way, to stay with his intellectually vacant, ugly girlfriend he’s written this poetry about, whom he only finds attractive because like him, she dresses and acts that way to get attention and to be someone she’s not.

But we digress again, as much as the intention was to be subtle, it has however come out a lot angrier than it should have been, and whatever subtlety was originally showcased has been replaced with a figurative sledgehammer of hate that wasn’t even there to begin with. The camera is still focused on the teen, who stands, disapprovingly, pretending not to care what the crowd member is telling him. Unfortunate decision, as the crowd member isn’t doing this to be hateful, but to genuinely try to improve the person in the spotlight, so he can become a better person, and not, as they’d like to put it, live a lie. We focus back in to what they’re saying.

But surely, we can all cope with what happens to us in different ways? For that surely is what separates us from the animals, from each other, that we are allowed to look at the same things in different ways, and derive different emotions and feelings therein? This view is never explored, and the pleas of the person in the crowd are made to fall on voluntarily deaf ears as instead, the onstage teenager bellows in a self-satisfactory manner, calling the crowd member a conformist, and walking offstage.

3 thoughts on “Mordecai Batwing

  1. dear diary:

    omg why r people such conformists!?! they could never hope 2 understand a genius as complicated as mine!? i’m just going 2 go listen 2 my chemical romance and pointlessly strum 1 chord on my acoustic (SO BROODING) and moan about all the phonies.

    Somewhere beyond the flossy clouds
    Cupid has lost his romancing arrows
    Plays sad sonorous tunes on his bow
    Dedicated to all weepy lonely hearts



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