abgunner10
06-07-2008, 08:30 AM
Cartoon Innuendos
Most children are quite fortunate not to know
The dark side of cartoons:
The lingering shadow that hides amidst
Lurid Technicolor or animated clay-
The kind of obscurity that evokes a
Perverse homosexual liaison
From the fast companionship of childhood friends,
Or forms a makeshift militia of disgruntled parents
Against a child’s source of jocular amusement,
Sending the youth to conspire in a tree house citadel
(“No Grownups Allowed” scrawled explicitly on its outer wall)
Against the grave injustices that have been contrived against them.
Most children are fortunate not to know
That Klasky and Csupo have woven the clandestine wonder
Of the female form, and the vindictive atrocities of a tyrant,
Within a tapestry of toddlers,
Or that lurking behind the walls of P.S.-118
Is a grisly spectrum of racial stereotypes
And social hierarchies.
Most children are safe to awake
At six in the morning, when the dawn idles
From behind an ebon curtain,
And laugh at the cathartic woes
Of injured green and orange people,
Whom they know will quickly heal,
Flakes of sugar cereal dribbling down their cherubic faces,
As they ponder in awe the lessons of youth and friendship,
While I must creep glacially out of bed each day,
And watch with a wry smile
Such insidious perversion and grim cynicism
That ten years ago would have driven me to tears.
Most children are quite fortunate not to know
The dark side of cartoons:
The lingering shadow that hides amidst
Lurid Technicolor or animated clay-
The kind of obscurity that evokes a
Perverse homosexual liaison
From the fast companionship of childhood friends,
Or forms a makeshift militia of disgruntled parents
Against a child’s source of jocular amusement,
Sending the youth to conspire in a tree house citadel
(“No Grownups Allowed” scrawled explicitly on its outer wall)
Against the grave injustices that have been contrived against them.
Most children are fortunate not to know
That Klasky and Csupo have woven the clandestine wonder
Of the female form, and the vindictive atrocities of a tyrant,
Within a tapestry of toddlers,
Or that lurking behind the walls of P.S.-118
Is a grisly spectrum of racial stereotypes
And social hierarchies.
Most children are safe to awake
At six in the morning, when the dawn idles
From behind an ebon curtain,
And laugh at the cathartic woes
Of injured green and orange people,
Whom they know will quickly heal,
Flakes of sugar cereal dribbling down their cherubic faces,
As they ponder in awe the lessons of youth and friendship,
While I must creep glacially out of bed each day,
And watch with a wry smile
Such insidious perversion and grim cynicism
That ten years ago would have driven me to tears.