The Monster Speaks
First off, Mary Shelley has described me quite accurately:
I stand nearly eight feet tall, with large, runny, yellow eyes
And a parchment thin, yellow skin that does a really ludicrous job
Of hiding my sewn, stapled and screwed together self underneath.
In any crowd of human beings, of actual “people,”
It is simply impossible for me to lose myself:
I am always at once much, much more and much, much less than I should ever be.
The meat, the carrion of my body, was once so dead and comfortable,
And it should have remained forever so.
(Doesn’t human flesh eventually earn the right to be exhausted
Over the constant insults of countless years,
The right to be simply worn out and passive in decay?)
Playing God has always seemed to be a human fascination.
In biological science, is there first a most necessary thing of “Doing,”
Just to prove that one is capable?
And then does there always have to be
Someone, somewhere with something very, very big to prove?
The most ferocious, ripping jolts of electricity
Burned at my neck, smoking at the two lead bolts
Which gave it entry, yet added no data, no shred
Of any knowledge beyond vegetative:
How to breathe, how to swallow saliva, how to feel the ground beneath my feet.
And suppose that I did have a new laptop, a new credit card, and a
Desperate craving for a large caramel frappe’ with extra whipped cream?
Just exactly how would that work, anyway?
I have been assembled here in the most obscene,
Most thrown-together fashion: an ankle from one,
A shin from another, a knee joint from a third.
In the graveyard and in the charnel house,
Simple proximity often determined what went where.
I represent a most improbable monster,
Snatched back from the dead, to become not exactly living,
And yet forced to daily pretend the very biggest lie of them all.
Oct. 13, 2011