Everyone loves Superman.
He does what he does well,
And he’s never wrong or fails.
But poor, poor Lex Luthor.
Who can blame him?
He took one look at
These saturated fat guzzling,
TV watching,
Blond haired, blue eyed,
White skinned fools,
Shaved his head,
Started crowd control
And said:
Time to take over the world.
See, Lex knew
There’s never any way to be totally right.
Superman just has better PR.
And Luthor saw
That one needed to get your forearms
Just
A little dirty, bloody,
To birth a little change in this sorry world,
While Superman fucked
Lex’s one true love
In the night,
While Lex knew
The world’s nature
In fervor.
And Lex cannot believe in God,
Because Superman’s the only one made manifest.
And look at what Superman did
To Lex Luthor
For doing his best
To put the evil, the good,
All the pathetic non-genius of the world
Under a controlled
But knowing thumb.
That’s representative democracy!
Superman wasn’t the only one
With ambitions of playing God.
While others wrote aesthetic news stories,
Luthor built a tower.
While the heroes were mired in games of love,
Lex created, and for his creations,
He is punished.
Lex Luthor could tell you how to get to Mars.
Lex Luthor could tell you how to build most any explosive.
Lex Luthor has more literary references than the Library of Congress.
And Superman?
He can beat Lex up.
Some days, I want to be Superman.
To be sure, so must Lex.
But poor, poor Lex Luthor.
I’d like to be him more.
Superman is sharp. Sexy.
GQ.
Lex is fat and bald.
The price of intelligence.
And lonely.
Lex has money, but he doesn’t
need
or
care
for it.
In order to be happy,
All he needs is intellectual drive,
Creative manifestation,
A worthy adversary,
And cool, hard logic.
Someone threatened to rip his intestines out.
“Evil is as evil does.” He said.
“Make it quick. I have business to attend to.”
No one ever really notices
Just how much
He loves Lois Lane.
Lex has no heart
Because a woman broke it.
His parents abused him.
Perry White,
An aesthetic newsman,
More concerned with truth than fair play,
Made his youth a hell and failure.
Then Superman moved in
To sweep up the ashes
And take the credit.
When Luthor’s not
Rotting in jail for ambition
Or losing
In a battle of wits
To a fist
He sits
And watches
And understands
These cruel, cruel people,
This sad lost world he wants to fix,
Bring order to.
He waits in creative intelligence
And wishes for flight
That will never, ever come.
Lois, somewhere fucking Superman,
Never looks up.
Lex Luthor sighs,
Thinks of making the world a batter,
More logical place,
And works to make a sweater
From the wool
Of the icon,
Of the sheep.
Poor, poor Lex Luthor.
May truth, justice, and the
American Way
Be done.