Summons
The joker is still grinning
Artwork by: Shain Parwiz
Common said:
“I’ve never knew a luh,luh-luh a love like this.”
At this juncture
I’m not at that stage.
I’ve never known a rage like this.
I just can’t let it consume me.
So here goes.
What they don’t know is
I write lines upon lines.
Page upon page.
Sometimes I cross them out.
They don’t match the rhythm.
Those lines.
The pen, my scalpel.
They haven’t learned yet
how these stanzas are their writ.
Summons.
The house always wins.
That’s what they’d hope.
Assuming they’ve stacked the deck.
But I’m that ever-grinning joker
in their pack.
I’m like Nadal,
serving them with papers.
One hand injured.
With the other
I’ll outdo those with both.
15–love.
They will get served.
Doesn’t matter the arena.
This ends in a room
where I hold court.
Dispute it if they want.
But, but, but
I hear them say
they can’t wait for the process.
Discovery.
Watch long enough.
And
instinct
always
reveals
itself.
Author’s Note
February 12th, 2026:
Workplace injury, fracture, dislocation.
Before that: three family deaths dismissed by HR
who asked for death certificates,
told me my salary meant I couldn’t really be suffering.
I documented everything.
Filed with Ministry of Manpower.
Informed the workplace.
Now they’re calling under the guise of checking on me.
I don’t answer.
Everything stays in text,
written record only.
One injured hand writes
what they’ll read in court.
The joker is still grinning.
I can’t wait for Discovery.
-Shain
So savage, raw and powerful. That image is so striking too. The total thing gave me Thomas Ligotti vibes.
Bravo Shain! There’s something almost sacred in how this work moves, both the words and the image. I keep coming back to the man standing, holding what looks like an album cover: a network of blood vessels sprawling across the page, a shadow larger than life looming over, and the chamber of parliament stretching out like a theater of power. It’s visceral and structural at once; private pain and public architecture intertwined.
The poem reads like that image: controlled, precise, but impossible to ignore. Each line is a serve, each stanza a court where instinct, rage, and justice collide. The pen becomes a scalpel, the hand a weapon, the record a summons. And yet beneath it all, the ever-grinning joker reminds us: even in the face of stacked decks, the game isn’t over until discovery.
This is art that holds space for fury, strategy, and quiet triumph. It’s both battlefield and gallery, ledger and ritual, and it lingers long after you look away.