Sonnet: Man, The Self-Made Monster
by John Kendall Hawkins
The real irony often neglected
about the monster Mary Shelley made
is the body parts that came together
as form and function encased in leather
had been sleepy deep-sixed, to call a spade
a spade, then bzzzzt they intersected
in a proto-consciousness, dead or alive,
depending on how you look at such things --
an early AI? Lurch? Herr Doktor's pure
alter ego: demi-god and cocksure?
It's a new morning, and look what it brings:
armies of the dead in a monster hive.
Mary's doctor was the real Frankenstein,
but did we listen? Oh well, never mind.
(Article changed on Jul 13, 2021 at 9:50 PM EDT)