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)
