—Hägar the Horrible
They’re not done following you,
these childish angers, like stormy
weather pushing in, memories
hovering near the edge of the panel,
peripheral to the eye.
Sharp cornered, nonsensical,
yet fully understood, where you go
they follow, intersecting
with the comical ires of others,
jangling, crashing, onomatopoetic
even though they employ
exactly zero letters. Hieroglyphic,
they convey feelings kids
shouldn’t have to have words for.
Frustration, despair, futility,
disappointment, resignation,
dread at the expectation you must
pound at dollars and exclaim!
In a funny way, these pencilled
rages aren’t even profane. Exclusive
to life off the page, spelled-out
curses match the emanata,
wafterons, and freakishly isolated
thunderheads adults drag along
behind them. You wish you could lose
these dark thought clouds,
but they are vital, are part of what
explains the bead of sweat inked
into the skin of your fucking temple.
The post Grawlix first appeared on The Walrus.
