Speeches for Dr Frankenstein
I, the performer
in the tense arena, glittered
under the fluorescent moon. Was bent
masked by the table. Saw what focused
my intent: the emptiness
The air filled with an ether of cheers.
My wrist extended a scalpel.
The table is a flat void,
barren as total freedom. Though behold
A sharp twist
like taking a jar top off
and it is a living
skeleton, mine, round,
that lies on the plate before me
red as a pomegranate,
every cell a hot light.
I circle, confront
my opponent. The thing
refuses to be shaped, it moves
like yeast. I thrust,
the thing fights back.
It dissolves, growls, grows crude claws;
The air is dusty with blood.
It springs. I cut
with delicate precision.
The specimens
ranged on the shelves, applaud.
The thing falls Thud. A cat
anatomized.
O secret
form of the heart, now I have you.
Now I shall ornament you.
What would you like?
Baroque scrolls on your ankles?
A silver navel?
I am the universal weaver;
I have eight fingers.
I complicate you;
I surround you with intricate ropes.
What web shall I wrap you in?
Gradually I pin you down.
What caution shall
I carve and seal in your skull?
What size will I make you?
Where should I put your eyes?
I was insane with skill:
I made you perfect.
I should have chosen instead
to curl you small as a seed,
trusted beginnings. Now I wince
before this plateful of results:
core and rind, the flesh between
already turning rotten.
I stand in the presence
of the destroyed god:
a rubble of tendons,
knuckles and raw sinews.
Knowing that the work is mine
how can I love you?
These archives of potential
time exude fear like a smell.
You arise, larval
and shrouded in the flesh I gave you;
I, who have no covering
left but a white cloth skin
escape from you. You are red,
you are human and distorted.
You have been starved,
you are hungry. I have nothing to feed you.
I pull around me, running,
a cape of rain.
What was my ravenous motive?
Why did I make you?
Reflection, you have stolen
everything you needed:
my joy, my ability
to suffer.
You have transmuted
yourself to me: I am
a vestige, I am numb.
Now you accuse me of murder.
Can’t you see
I am incapable?
Blood of my brain,
it is you who have killed these people.
Since I dared
to attempt impious wonders
I must pursue
that animal I once denied
was mine.
Over this vacant winter
plain, the sky is a black shell;
I move within it, a cold
kernel of pain.
I scratch huge rescue messages
on the solid
snow; in vain. My heart’s
husk is a stomach. I am its food.
The sparkling monster
gambols there ahead,
his mane electric:
This is his true place.
He dances in spirals on the ice,
his clawed feet
kindling shaggy fires.
His happiness
is now the chase itself:
he traces it in light,
his paths contain it.
I am the gaunt hunter
necessary for his patterns,
lurking, gnawing leather.
The creature, his arctic hackles
bristling, spreads
over the dark ceiling,
his paws on the horizons,
rolling the world like a snowball.
Doctor, my shadow
shivering on the table,
you dangle on the leash
of your own longing;
your need grows teeth.
and said it was
Creation. I could feel the knife.
Now you would like to heal
that chasm in your side,
but I recede. I prowl.
I will not come when you call.
theartofmadeline
gracieabrams
vaporwave
2087
romaincrisis
