Alan Moore - Watchmen #11

Red volcanic screams sought peace, blooming fire and sucking dust. To no avail. Peace instead inched its way into the world through a firm foot slid backwards into sand, through piteous burning whimpers, and through thin filaments of care.  "My heart's pounding."

O Seymour, Crank file keeper, Reach through those thin missives. O Seymour, Green shirt avatar, Grasp the leather-bound truth.   O Seymour, You are A stomach Ready to burst.   "You have two more pages to fill before you eat, thanks to that goddammed ass-kissing accord!"

Whether on green, unbroken crests Or across the barreled boneyard, Love fetches and lifts. Keep your ear close to the face of the wave, Let its thunderous static surround you. "Two bricks coming up."

Faced with the threat of burning, crawling, infectious hatred, Of mothers clutching babies, popping thin skulls on cobblestone, Of last days in the third Cybertronian war, The second king quested and beguiled Ripped wisdom from the heart of his son, And in a sacrifice of souls proclaimed, "Now light our darkest hour." "- But Prime, I'm just a soldier. I'm not worthy. - Nor was I."

He asks you to ask questions about yourself, All the while imagining a scalpel-sharp blade Severing your horizontal fissure,  Soft pink cubes soon soaked in vinegar For ten minutes or more, Before washed, salted and spiced,  Cooked and finally fried, A thin sliver of smile across his face.   "You have to convince yourself the lion is not in the room. When it is, I assure you, you will know."

The pressure of sex Bends mirrored love Like stone on spandex; It shatters it into thin sharp fragments, And then mends it, fitting glass madly, Until time and choice collapse.   "Time to win some hearts and minds!"

How cool is this comic? We didn't even talk about the costume re-design. The costume re-design was literally the least interesting thing about this comic. And that's not a slight. It's a cool re-design. A cool re-design in a cool comic. For cool people. Like you.

Blue womb in barren sand, an endless supply of civilization. Soon the city will return to the nuclear wastes, born of nuclear love. All that now remains is a man.

Brain hemorrhaging cadaverine cephalopod stares, unblinking. Fearing crosshairs of world's grim end, it is released. 

Like grease on your beard, greed flavours the rich man's every bite. He sniffs and snorts and rummages in greed, the rich man. Crawling, he seeks just one more thing to swallow and shit. Better to burn such a creature and leave its bones for the dogs. "Is this the one who's got you all concerned about the dirty snow? Jesus, Forrest! You and me, we bought hookers better than this for five bucks in Bangkok!"