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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Batman

  • 100 Grand and a Book Deal | Candy Bars, Cosmic Rhymes & Building a Writing Life

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece exists because I started chasing a joke and never stopped.

    It began with the phrase “candy bars” and my brain immediately decided that if I was going to use that line, then I had a responsibility to see how many directions I could stretch it before the whole thing collapsed.

    Apparently the answer was: quite a few.

    Music bars. Candy bars. Space metaphors. Basketball references. Superheroes. Bob the Builder.

    At some point I stopped asking where the poem was going and just followed it.

    What surprised me is that beneath all the wordplay and punchlines, a theme quietly emerged on its own.

    I’ve spent twenty-three years writing.

    Long enough that writing no longer feels like something I do—it feels like part of the architecture of my life. Every poem, every story, every abandoned draft, every late-night idea scribbled into a notebook has contributed to the person I became.

    So while this piece is intentionally playful, there is a small truth hiding inside all the jokes.

    The lines about Jordan, Batman, Thor, and building aren’t really about any of those things.

    They’re about creation.

    About spending years building something that didn’t exist before.

    A voice. A body of work. A universe made from language.

    The title came from one of the many candy references, but it also captures the spirit of the piece perfectly.

    Part joke. Part aspiration.

    Because if you’ve spent decades writing, I think you’re allowed to dream a little.

    And if that dream happens to include a 100 Grand and a book deal, well…

    I won’t argue with it.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet stands in a cosmic landscape surrounded by floating candy bars, stars, books, and galaxies, symbolizing creativity, ambition, and a lifetime of writing.
    Every bar starts somewhere. Sometimes with candy. Sometimes with stars. Sometimes with a dream worth building one line at a time.

    100 Grand and a Book Deal
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    My taste in music is crazy,
    I guess you could say—
    I listen to looney tunes.

    The sound comes from
    across the stars,
    I provide out‑of‑this‑world bars.
    So when we get together
    it’s a Space Jam.

    I’m soft like nougat,
    I write candy bars—
    with a punchline
    that hits so hard,
    it’s got a CRUNCH
    like Nestle’s.

    Milky Way thoughts—
    going cosmic
    every time I brainstorm.
    An Airhead?
    Maybe—
    I keep my head
    in Fluffy Stuff clouds.

    And I won’t stop,
    won’t give in
    until the Payday hits—
    100 Grand
    and a book deal.

    Every poem’s a hit.
    I don’t miss—
    like my name’s Steph Curry.

    23 years GOAT’d,
    Jordan in his prime—
    the way I pen my rhymes.
    Did it with no Pippen.
    No Rodman—
    I am Batman, no Robin.

    I built this house myself.
    Swinging hammers,
    call me Odinson—
    Bob the Builder
    building something.

    I made this universe
    line by line—

    and every bar I drop
    is mine.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Copy of a Copy]
    A sharp, self-aware poem about originality, imitation, and the search for an authentic creative voice. What begins as a diss gradually reveals itself as a meditation on authorship, influence, and the things that can never truly be copied.

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Reliquary of Broken Sons – A Vignette of the Broken Saint & Clown Prince | Neo-Gothic Fanfic

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Invocation ☾

    In every cathedral of ruin, there are relics left behind: a scuffed pearl, a single breath, a name spoken in marrow.
    This is the first confession—the night blood crowned them brothers, and ruin gave them different prayers to keep.

    This is the…

    The Broken Saint and Clown Prince stand in a misty Gotham alley, moonlight glinting off scattered pearls.
    Two brothers crowned by the same violence—bound by pearls, ruin, and marrow-deep confession.

    🕯️ Reliquary of Broken Sons

    A Vignette of the Broken Saint & the Clown Prince
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I. Crime Alley, then —

    They called him Tommy — a name softer than winter’s breath, a name Mother spoke like a lullaby.
    He always trailed behind: eyes on moth wings dancing in gaslight, heart beating its own distracted hymn.

    “Tommy, hurry up,” Father’s voice sighed—warm, alive, wrapped in silk and fatigue.

    That’s when the stranger stepped from the shadowed mouth of the alley.

    The first gunshot rang out—a psalm cracked open by violence.
    Mother’s pearls scattered across wet stone, prayer beads turned relic in an instant.

    The second gunshot folded Father beside her, a ruin crowned in blood.

    For a single heartbeat, the world held its breath.
    Bruce dropped to his knees, hands trembling against still-warm skin, lips moving in a prayer no god would hear.

    Tommy turned, too late to stop it, too late to save anyone—only to witness.

    His gaze fell to the scattered pearls: white ghosts glimmering in gutter water.
    He knelt—not by the bodies, but by the relics.

    The first pearl in his palm felt like a sacrament.
    The second, a curse.
    By the third, laughter coiled in his chest—not joy, but something older, darker:
    the knowing that ruin could be beautiful.

    Two brothers crowned by the same violence:
    Bruce, frozen in devotion and disbelief.
    Tommy, hands shaking as he gathered the broken rosary of their childhood.

    II. Crime Alley, now —

    Years peeled away, masks and madness replacing boyhood.
    The alley remains the same: cracked cobblestones, gutter water black as confession, and the echo of two gunshots still humming in the marrow of night.

    Bruce stands silent: the Broken Saint, devotion calcified into armor.
    Tommy steps forward from the shadows: the Clown Prince, painted grin cracked by memory, pearls still clutched like relics.

    Moonlight spills ruin across cowl and greasepaint alike, turning them both into statues of grief.

    The pearls glimmer between them—white scars that remember what words cannot.

    And then—from lips painted red, voice husked by time and heresy:

    “Hello, Brucey…
    never thought you’d see me again. Did you…
    brother…?” the Clown Prince smiles.

    The word falls heavy as a funeral bell: part curse, part confession, part unholy benediction.

    And in that breathless hush, Crime Alley remembers them:
    not Saint and Monster, not Hero and Villain—
    but blood, bone, and ruin born of the same cathedral night.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the ruin remember why it loved you both.
    May the pearls keep your prayers, even broken.
    And though salvation never came,
    may your confessions remain holy in their endlessness.

    🔗 Read Next (Suggestions)…

    [The Vigil of the Broken Saint] – where the confession began, and ruin became devotion.
    [The Vigil of the Clown Prince] – where laughter rotted into liturgy, and devotion wore a painted grin.

    The Rest of the Vigils (so far)…

    [The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin]
    [The Vigil of the Poisoned Rose]
    [The Vigil of the First Son]

    Or visit [About NGCR] to learn more about this movement—and if you feel called, [submit your own writing] to be featured.

    If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans

  • The Vigil of the First Son | Neo-Gothic Confessional Prose by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Introduction ☾

    In every myth, there is a shadow cast by a cathedral’s ghost;
    in every son who claims that shadow, a prayer whispered in defiance.
    This is the confessional of a child born of ruin and rebellion—
    sworn not to brokenness, but to the fierce holiness of becoming.
    This is…

    Nighttime illustration of a masked vigilante standing on a cathedral roof, overlooking a cracked yet living city under moonlight; symbolizing hope within ruin.
    A sentinel between shadow and dawn — the First Son’s vigil burns quietly, but it burns still.

    ☽ The Vigil of the First Son ☾
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I was not born from cathedral shadows—
    I fell from another height, beneath painted canvas and sawdust air,
    where faith meant catching and being caught.

    But the fall came anyway.
    And in the ruin, he found me—
    the Broken Saint, robed in mourning.
    He offered me a name forged from grief,
    and I took it, though my palms still smelled of flight and chalk.

    They call me heir, as if shadow is all I have inherited.
    But gods know, I am more:

    I have bled in these alleys, yes—
    but I have danced on rooftops, too,
    laughter spilling into the bruised dawn,
    a reminder that even vigil can be alive.

    He is the shadow.
    I am the light who learned to love the dark
    without letting it devour me.

    Sometimes guilt creeps in—
    that I can still love where he has walled himself off,
    that I can still smile where he only mourns.

    But hope is rebellion, too—
    a heresy against a city built on scars.

    Tonight, the moon crowns my brow in borrowed silver,
    and Blüdhaven breathes below—cracked, imperfect, alive.

    I watch from these heights:
    a sentinel, a son, still learning.

    I am not him.
    And gods, that is my salvation.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the shadow teach you mercy.
    May your scars be the map to your salvation.
    And though the night will call,
    may your first vigil blaze bright enough to be seen from every dawn.

    🔗 You might also like…

    Every vigil casts its own shadow.
    If The Vigil of the First Son has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:

    The Vigil of the Broken Saint — a confession of Gotham’s haunted martyr.
    The Vigil of the Clown Prince — a testament of madness, ruin, and marrow-deep defiance.
    The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin — scars reborn as rebellion, laughter reclaimed.

    Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.
    May you find something of yourself between the shadows and the candlelight.

    If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans

  • The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin | Neo-Gothic Prose on Rebellion

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Introduction ☾

    Every cathedral remembers the hands that built it — and the hands that broke it.
    This is the testament of Gotham’s laughing apostate:
    once kneeling in carrion chapels beside the king of rot, now risen, bruised and unbound.
    Not crowned by grace, but by ruin reclaimed and ribs that still remember laughter turned lash.
    This is…

    Cracked marble cathedral with a harlequin mask, moonlit stained glass shards, and wilted rose — symbolizing Harley Quinn’s vigil and rebellion.
    Painted in grief, stitched in giggles — her vigil isn’t for salvation, but for the self she swore she wouldn’t bury.

    ☽ The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin ☾
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I keep vigil in the bones of his cathedral —
    the funhouse we called sanctuary, walls lacquered with spit-laced prayers and blood that never dried.
    The city itself? Our slaughterhouse chapel — gutters still gargle our shared delirium, alleys still echo jokes that tasted like venom.

    I wear the scars he left me like relics — bruises reborn as ink, ribs tattooed with the punchlines that almost broke me.
    My prayers? Crooked confessions spat between cracked teeth — not to be heard, but to remind myself I still have a voice.

    The stained glass? Daggers we shattered together — now each shard remembers both of us:
    the Clown Prince crowned in carrion, and his harlequin kneeling at an altar built of bone and betrayal.

    Moonlight slices through ruin — casts my grin across cracked marble, where I once begged him to see me instead of the echo.
    The gargoyles remember the girl who painted devotion in red and white, only to find madness demanded her marrow, not her heart.

    Agony was our liturgy, ruin our gospel.
    His laughter crowned me queen of decay — but in the silence after the last joke curdled, I found my own feral hymn.

    Some nights, the rot still whispers his name in the marrow of my grin —
    a phantom crown of splintered love pressing blood to scalp, laughter curling like a noose.
    But my devotion decayed; my grin grew fangs.

    The creed that beats behind scarred ribs:
    I knelt in carrion for a king who mistook love for leash. I rose when I learned laughter could be mine alone.

    Now I haunt these pews not to mourn him, but to remember what ruin cost me —
    and what marrow-deep rebellion gave back: breath unbroken, knuckles bloodied but free.

    His vigil rots on the throne of carrion.
    Mine stalks the shadows — not in his name, but in spite of it.
    The marrow remembers, but the marrow is mine now.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the ruin remember why you unstitched devotion from your ribs.
    May your laughter remain feral — marrow-deep and sovereign, a psalm no king can claim.
    And though no god dares crown you,
    may your vigil remain eternal — a testament carved in scars, rebellion, and ruin reclaimed.

    🔗 You might also like…

    Every vigil casts its own shadow.
    If The Vigil of the First Son has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:

    The Vigil of the Broken Saint
    The Vigil of the Clown Prince
    The Vigil of the First Son

    Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.

    Psalm of the Spiraling Tongue — A Prayer Against Goodbye
    Psalm of the Half-Loved — A Prayer for the Mercy of Goodbye
    The Scourge They Named in Whispered Psalms

    If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans

  • The Vigil of the Clown Prince | Dark Gotham Prose by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Introduction ☾

    Every cathedral rots from within; every prayer curdles when whispered by a madman.
    This is the testament of Gotham’s laughing blasphemy —
    a devotion not to grace, but to the exquisite fracture of sanity.
    Not redemption, but ruin; not mercy, but mockery.
    This is…

    Gothic cathedral ruins with cracked stained glass and grotesque gargoyles under pale moonlight, symbolizing madness and chaos.
    The haunted chapel of chaos — where madness is liturgy and laughter a prayer.

    ☽ The Vigil of the Clown Prince ☾
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I keep vigil in a cathedral of carrion and cracked marble — arches bowed not by faith, but by centuries of festering jokes.
    The city itself? My slaughterhouse chapel: gutters that gargle filth, alleys that echo delirium back in fractured refrain.

    I wear madness like regalia — stitched from screams, lacquered in blood that never dries.
    My prayers? Spat between cracked teeth, carried on rancid laughter that curdles the night air.

    The stained glass? Nothing left but daggers of memory, slicing the fool that still remembers pain.
    No sun dares visit; only moonlight — pale, pitying, useless.

    This city offers no communion. Its gargoyles leer in stone mockery; the altar reeks of old blood and burned hope.
    Yet still, I press my painted brow against it — streaks of red, white, rot: an offering spat at the gods who never answered.

    Agony becomes liturgy. Each scar a punchline flayed into flesh, each fracture a hymn to ruin.
    The creed tattooed in marrow: Chaos is gospel. Madness is absolution.
    And when the grin threatens to split my skull, I bare my teeth wider.

    Night after night, I crawl back — not pulled by grief, but by the exquisite rot that whispers: Nothing matters. Laugh louder.
    The gargoyles don’t weep; they leer as kin, stone throats choked on stone laughter.

    Even the bats above shudder at the shape I’ve become, wings beating sermons I silence with a shriek.
    My breath fogs like a plague, each exhale a hex on hope itself.

    There is no redemption here. Only ruin, sweet as a lover’s kiss, and the ache that tastes like worship.
    Still, I remain — grinning, defiled, defiant — because this, too, is devotion:
    to kneel in filth, to mock salvation, to let the marrow of Gotham remember my laughter.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the ruin remember why it crowned you king of carrion.
    May your laughter stitch shut the wound where hope once bled.
    And though no god dares claim you,
    may your vigil remain eternal — a psalm of poison, madness, and marrow-deep defiance.

    If you find yourself drawn into the shadows of Gotham, explore more of my work and join the vigil of broken saints and twisted souls:

    🔗 You might also enjoy…

    Every vigil casts its own shadow.
    If The Vigil of the Clown Prince has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:

    The Vigil of the Broken Saint
    The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin
    The Vigil of the First Son

    Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.

    Hex & Flame: Mirror of Shadows
    Epistle to the Name They Buried
    Ashes of the Prodigal Daughter

    Support my writing and get custom poems at ko-fi!

  • The Vigil of the Broken Saint | Neo-Gothic Prose of Devotion, Grief & Vengeance

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Introduction ☾

    In every myth, there is a cathedral of ruin; in every man who calls himself monster, a prayer that was never answered.
    This is the confessional of a city’s orphaned ghost — sworn not to salvation, but to the endless catechism of vengeance.
    This is…

    A lone vigilante kneels in a ruined gothic cathedral lit by moonlight through shattered stained glass, stone gargoyles above.
    A cathedral of shadows, where devotion wears bruises and hope decays into prayer.

    ☽ The Vigil of the Broken Saint ☾
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I keep vigil in a cathedral of bone and sorrow — arches aching heavenward, ribs of stone bruised by night’s embrace.
    The city itself becomes my chapel: alleys the dark nave, gargoyles my silent witnesses, gargling rain and secrets.

    I wear grief like a monk’s habit, dyed black as confession and heavier than sin.
    Each night, I descend into prayer not with folded hands but with clenched fists — my psalms spoken in bruises and fractured breath.

    The stained glass here is cracked beyond repair: memories of a pearl necklace scattering like small white prayers on asphalt; a boy’s scream swallowed by gun smoke.
    Their colors are gone — only shards remain, catching no dawn, only moonlight and guilt.

    This city does not absolve.
    Its concrete saints are headless, the altar cold as a tombstone.
    I press my forehead to it anyway, blood wetting stone: a silent offering for a father who cannot forgive, a mother who cannot speak.

    Pain becomes sacrament.
    Every scar is a prayer bead, every fracture an unanswered supplication.
    The creed etched in marrow: Vengeance is devotion. Sacrifice is absolution.
    And when my knees ache from the stone, I rise still unredeemed.

    Yet night after night, I return.
    Drawn back to this ruined chapel by ghosts draped in shadow and sorrow.
    The gargoyles never weep, but I have learned to cry behind the cowl — hot salt hidden in darkness.

    Even the bats above seem to mourn with me, their wings whispering sermons in a language of hunger and hollow echo.
    My breath fogs in the cold, each exhale a psalm of stubborn defiance.

    There is no redemption here.
    Only the soft rot of hope turned grave-cold and the ache that will not leave.
    Still, I remain — bruised, unholy, unrepentant — because this, too, is devotion: to rise, even damned, and walk the city’s labyrinth once more.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the ruin remember why it loved you.
    May the bruises become scripture.
    And though no salvation comes,
    may your broken vigil remain holy in its endlessness.

    🔗 You might also enjoy…

    Every vigil casts its own shadow.
    If The Vigil of the Broken Saint has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:

    The Vigil of the Clown Prince
    The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin
    The Vigil of the First Son

    Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.

    Therapy in Arkham
    Infinity Within – Plus Credits & End Credit Scene

    ✒️ If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

    Ko-fi – Poetry by Rowan Evans