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    dots Submission Name: The Monster Speaksdots

    Author: catman
    Elite Ratio:    3.81 - 2/3/5
    Words: 418
    Class/Type: Poetry/Gothic
    Total Views: 933
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2272

       It just came to me one day that every poet should write, or at least attempt, a Halloween poem. Like before, my line breaks don't always register correctly in this little box !

    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsThe Monster Speaksdots

    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.

    D.W. Boyles
    Oct. 13, 2011

    Submitted on 2011-12-06 21:01:45     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

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    ||| Comments |||
      Oh, I love the idea! writing the poem from the monster's perspective seems to be fascinating! Some of the questions you asked were really interesting, but a regretful existence is not exactly what i expected from a monster. But that is exactly what makes this poem more wonderful.

    great job!
    | Posted on 2011-12-09 00:00:00 | by rsujith | [ Reply to This ]

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