Based on a painting, "Nuclear Puppies", by Julie Nagel, 2001*

You’re a mutant, you know—
got funny dog babies sprouting
out of your head like they were
ears.  Those copies of your face

look up at a sky of ashy gray,
perked and tense.  Are you listening
to yourself?  What choir
of dog-eared deformities

sings to you?  Maybe they should have
howled louder before we dropped The Bomb.
Maybe the yellow caterwaul of their
melting butter bodies would have stayed our hand.

I doubt it though.  
This is what we do. We burn things.
We tinker, adding and subtracting until
what’s left is blasphemy—until what’s left is

you.  A yellow almost-dog, a sagging
body with melted flesh where there should
be fur. Sad monster; beg your alms
from the atomic Frankensteins who made you.

Your skyward eyes are bright, still happy
anywhere but here.  But your abominable
body lies here staring into gray space with
Alpo still sticky on your nose, wet, brown snow.

moment to moment
we are the sum total of
our chemicals

we think of ourselves
we think of others
as an average of our
time and spacial synergy
an anatomical amalgam
a biological brine

frankensteins with
personalities, commonalities and
unique agendas
sprinkled with neuroses that
range from microscopic to
catastrophic, whether
chemical reaction or
hyperbolic extraction

you can choose to
canonize or demonize
as long as you can
recognize
the flesh and the blood
versus the fantasized

Watch out! They're coming everybody beware
they walk around real life,
from our nightmares.

Through the town their creeping
to get the things they want;
they come with a password
to each house they haunt.

From a pirouette forms Draculla
as he comes to full height,
he draws his cape to his chin
to hide his overbite.

Against a full moons light
hangs a witches shape
all year shes been waiting
for this very night to escape.

The wolfman howls through the distance
and sprouts coarse red hair.
As ghosts and goblins frenzy
through the cool nights air.

Two lights are yellow glowing
above a toothless grin
on an old Jack-o-lantern
born from a pumpkin.

Into the light comes creeping
a cat as black as coal,
from out of hiding places
upon the night to stroll.

Out of the closets rattle
old Mr. Bones,
and from the tombs rumble
a mommie moans.

Outside they all gather
monsters of every size;
from huge Frankensteins
down to the little guys.

Here they come, be quiet,
wait for a knock to be heard.
There it is get ready
for the password.

"Trick-or-treat's" the password
then comes the trade,
for the small price of a treat
no tricks will be played.

"Happy Halloween!"
before they all turn and disappear,
back into their hiding places
I'm safe again till next year...

The future has razor-sharp
edges, swiftly cutting
bright red wet and ugly scars.
The past is a blunt knife,
dull and rusty
and I'm being stabbed
and stabbed
and stabbed.
I am stuck in the
present down on my knees
swimming in blood and saliva
with dry tears streaming
down my face
unable to catch a breath
choking on misery
nails dug deep into
my skin
and I am screaming
but no one can hear
and I want to rip
my trachea out and chop
my lungs and eat my heart out
and pull out all
those miles of intestines;
I want to flay my skin
and lay it out for you to
see my scars.
I'm a grotesque of
days long gone
of days that reign
of days that soon will be.
I am the monster you created,
you Dr. Frankensteins,
I am your masterpiece,
I am what you made me
but you won't leave me be.

I know it's called "the present",
but God help me, it's simply not a gift.

If you need a place to pick your nose,
Eat contraband &/or beat your meat,
God bless the child that's got his own,
That's got his own bedroom,
His personal Reichstag bunker,
His private Junker Bauhaus,
If you get my drift?
If you don’t, “Get Bent!”
I am not here to entertain you.

So I am coming in from garden hosing--
Not lederhosen, you Aryan punks!--&
I'm on my rear patio thinking to myself
I couldn’t get any higher,
Even with Jackie singing:
Search Results Jackie Wilson - (Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher And Higher (Best ... Aug 11, 2011 - Uploaded by jakebucknall 123 Jackie Wilson - (Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher And Higher (Best Quality). The Staple Singers -I https://www.youtube.com/watchv=mzDVaKRApcg.
But I digress.

A spot of hose magic,
Watching my garden grow.
Keeping things moist & fertile,
Leonard Cohen (RIP) on the airwaves,
A fat blunt betwixt my lips,
"Curling up like smoke above my shoulder."
“Don’t get me started,” I said,
Paying tribute to beloved Joan Rivers (RIP)
Lost so senselessly, so humorlessly,
To some whack-job-wonder boy,
Who just happened to score perfect 800s
On his high school SAT exams, &
Later worming his way into Med School,
Which rather begs the obvious question:
Those 11-year old Frankensteins,
Why did their Bubbes give them a
Chemistry sets for Chanukah?
Later earning state Medical licenses,
Licenses to practice,
Licenses to **** & just say
*“OOPS, I did it again!”

Test my patience
Is a virtue
If you think
These words can't hurt you
Or subvert your bricks and thrones
To shallow caves of sticks and stones
And early graves of mogul masses
Unenlightened social classes
Cashing in the broadcaste system
Fearful fascist feudalism
Cataclysm communist
Red dead to rites of populist
We can't resist the terrorize
In refugees we demonize
So televise the violent crimes
And lionize the Frankensteins
Cuz' we all scream for Isis stream
To guillotine the fields of green  
The Vaccines are the influenza
FDA is salmonella
Poisoning the stomach bile
In the processed garbage aisle
As the vile needle kills
The blood which pours as rivers spills
Polluted by the politics
The very air we breathe is sick
Like respirating pits of tar
A pack of Marbs is all we are
On par with country clubs of pigs
Who sell us lies and oil rigs
And stuff the stockings up with coal
And change the climate of my soul
To winter's blight of coldest steel
Still rusting in this rage I feel
Then melting in the wildfire
Of the funeral empire
Rolling thunder power dice
Of life and gambling on its price
As they repeal and then erase
All knowledge of this human race

O Eve, we love you to death—
More than we can say, BUT
Why did you have to go
And get us into this rut?
Hey, you had it so good.
Talk about life of leisure!
But one little bite and zap!
That put an end to our pleasure.
Of all the fruit in the garden
You fell for the apple, of course.
You’re lucky that dear hubby Adam
Didn’t request a divorce.
Kicked out of the Garden of Eden,
You had to suffer the throes...
And because of you look what happened:
Now we all have to wear clothes!

Oh, woe is me!
What’s there to do?
Thanks to dear Eve,
We’re all in a stew.

O Pandora, beautiful lady,
Did Zeus not foresee the hard knocks
That would have to befall us
After you opened that box?
Did Hephaestus and Athena
Mold you out of the earth
Only to let out the evils
And put an end to our mirth?
We know that you weren’t being malicious,
For that’s not the person you were;
Your curiosity tricked you
Before you knew what would occur.
With all the plagues and diseases
I don’t know how we would cope
If you hadn’t left in the box
That one little glimmer of Hope.

Oh, woe is me!
What’s there to do?
Thanks to Pandora,
We’re all in a stew.

O Prometheus, why did you have to,
After making man out of clay,
Go and present us with fire?
Now we all have to pay!
Surely your flames have been useful
For helping us to warm our buns,
Or for boiling our drinking water
To keep us from getting the runs.
But look what else you have started:
Because of you and your fire
We now have powerful weapons
That we can never retire.
If we just had rocks and arrows,
We’d still be inflicting much pain.
But bombs that could blow up the earth?
I swear! That is truly insane!
 
Oh, woe is me!
What’s there to do?
Thanks to Prometheus,
We’re all in a stew.
 
Victor Frankenstein, tell us:
Were you not cognizant prior
To making your monstrous creation
That it was sure to backfire?
For the suffering that you caused
Numerous victims have scorned you.
I’m sure some wary friends said,
“Sorry, Victor, I warned you!”
We all know that you suffered.
Your daily life was hell.
And because of you and the others,
We all have to suffer as well.
We in our infinite wisdom,
Ignoring all the signs,
Continue to assemble
Our own Frankensteins!
 
Oh, woe is me!
What’s there to do?
Thanks to dear Victor,
We’re all in a stew.

-by Bob B

In the scrap workshop

I build monster vehicles --


Modern Frankensteins.

I left my darkness at home in a drawing i did
Capped my pen with its lid
And slid it under the table
Still on my mind like a drug
So I tried to sweep it under the rug
But spring cleaning had a different meaning this season
Greetings my darkness said
I thought i hid you with the rest of this mess
I'm only hidden till you are stressed
See there are things in your head
I am not one of them
But those things lay my bed
And so there behind your eyes I rest
Your inaction and content my crest
Though I wear it plainly
It seems you can never see it
A symbol for your Frankensteins monster
In hindsight you might has well be it
So Doctor when will you decide to believe it?

The only difference between God and Frankenstein
is the success of what they deemed their magnum opus,
and when it comes down to the end of days,
the Great Judge must turn his gavel inward,
lest he condemn his doppelgänger to an opposite fate.

It is a universal human experience to fail,
even more so to fail at the apex of triumph.
When God made the world, did he imagine
that it would go to waste?
Would it ever have crossed his mind that love is conditional,
at least for the flawed creatures he expected perfection from?

Does this, then, make God human?
Or just a Heavenly Lady of Shalott,
weaving a tapestry of emulation, of the very same
thing he cannot be.
It is considered blasphemous
to entertain the notion that God is inferior,
but is this born of punishment,
or of shame, of trying to save face?

It is stated so many times that the student will surpass the master,
and isn’t that what is happening here?
Perhaps God created trees, but humanity cut them down.
Destruction is just as artful as creation,
if not more so - there’s more finality in it.
It’s possible that God is too scared to ever end a story.

But we - our nation of Frankensteins -
will end everything.
Given the right tools, we’ll end the universe,
far beyond the reaches of this insignificant planet.
We’ll lay waste to God’s pride
and replace it with our own hubris.

We go down on our own sinking ship with smiles;
even if we can escape, we won’t.
We are cruel that way.
We will never accept fatherhood or responsibility,
but spite and death work hand in hand
at the fall of any empire -
what can be done to stop us?
We are fluent in the only language God speaks.

When you started to love me you created a monster
The devil inside
My demons on my shoulder
You promised we would always be bonnie and clyde

In the dark corners of my mind
There is a tealight of hope
Thats dimming by each passing day
My stomach feels like im walking on tightrope.

i recycle my words
stitch them rip them
tear them apart
turn them into monstrosities
frankensteins of lines
transplant them from here to there
from yours to mine and mine
to none
dead brain dead weight
fallen limbs and the
butchers table
to who or whom
do they belong not mine
let them rot decay
and fade with the times
a madman and a cleaver
cleaving clinging slinging
syllables together senselessly
sensually
torn flesh from bone
marrow and bloodletting
to purify the sickness

oh yes, but would you like to see me smile?

i stand above the bathroom sink,
staring in the mirror
under the flickering light over my head.
the dark circles, familiar—
a pair of scissors, one hand twitching,
strands of hair lying in the wash basin.
i chopped my hair in half,
shredded, shaggy layers framing my face.
a smile of freedom, one of acceptance,
the glistening madness in the eyes unsaid.

i stir what once was my skin,
now mere blood—tying myself to this life with an oath,
my ode to swear, to protect and to stay
true to my kin.
cruelty vibing in chaos-kissed violence.
how many times do i shed this skin
until it's not me who remains in the mirror,
and i finally forget my own name?

babies grow old into something brutal—
monsters that walk this place,
sing lullabies to their own preachers.
i've slipped and fallen and i've been left behind,
but the board i'd been playing upon
it turned upside down.
here, the world relies on my head.
i've got the ceiling under my feet,
the skies in my chest.
every ragged breath speaks a tune—
a horror comedy, ransacked, askew.

anew, this curse—
laughing while running through a field,
landmines under my feet.
drapery of melancholy, slips forsaken, hugs me tight.
the curtain of reality—i tear it half.
hands reaching out as claws,
drawing scars on the delusions.
there's beauty in forgiving,
madness in illusion.

once again, again, and again once more.
sixty-one days crossed out on the calendar
that once held way too many promises.
the ladder of failure and of persistence
carries bodies drowning in trying and abstinence.

there isn't any exit in the end.
the broken headphones,
cacophonies of blown-out candles
and half-smushed chocolate cake—
a brief history, periodical, falling,
hell-bent trying to be treacherous,
reaching out to pull the noise from music,
leaving raw voices, hearing them bruise.
archive this, paint the mess, click a picture,
write a note, believe the misplaced faith.
chase that feeling,
run half a mile toward the grim.

oh, but do you see the lights
when you close your eyes?
shattering silence.
the dance of a rugged doll—
i turned her key thrice, and once more.
better to be safe than sorry
amid the growing legions of undeterred regions.
do you hold her or stay near?

tsk, tsk, tsk—sounds of your begging,
faking every emotion, every gathering.
these masks of clay, carved to stone.
pity, pity, pity.
do you even remember who you were before?

empathy is a sin disguised as understanding.
sympathy for the weaklings.
you're playing monogamy,
devour the strength of the flies and the snickers.
tattoo yourself with flames—
let them draw in the scorching heat,
watch them be triggered.

sinners walk this place,
absent, indigenous—
they'll perish soon either way.

proclaim the promises in disguise
of gods for whom you pray.
metamorph into frankensteins,
surrender fascism—
believers of the wrong truths.
mercy shall be provided to you.

i might be the villain.

Doesn’t come easy
I have jars on the shelf
Filled with
Jarring metaphors
Sparring rhymes;
Poems aborted

Dead ends.
Some just clumsy fumblings
Some un-clementine Frankensteins
Some too painful to finish
Some too personal to post

But for me, a life-line.