Horror and Thriller Poetry posted August 10, 2014


Exceptional
This work has reached the exceptional level
A man thinks himself a god...

I, Man!

by Dean Kuch


The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.




~I, Man~


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I deemed I'd do much better than my God above, Himself,

I sought the Master's volumes out gathering dust upon the shelf.

 Their supple skin and leathered feel brought an aching heart release,

'twas then I knew why none should die,  my mentor's shared belief.



Sketched body parts were works of art, I thumbed through page by page,

these scribblings in old manuals drawn in scientific sage.

Instructions there, I knew– beware! – yet I continued, all the more,

 this grisly work, where dangers lurked, completing ghastly chores.




 photo The_necronomicon_by_MarcSimonetti_zps55c324f9.jpg



I secured the freshest deadest meat my monies could supply.

A local man, of broadest span, yet one too young to die.

I studied all of the passages so carefully scribed in ink,

set about, dispelling doubt, a corpse could truly think.



My master dead, I feared with dread; I'd surely botched his work,

when last we tried, our creation died after it had gone berserk.

Yet, I prepared most tenaciously each vile device required,

to create a living, breathing man from death; my sole desire.


 photo wrightson1_zpsd93a5bde.jpg



 

My assistant brought things I sought, fresh bodies everyday –

to my delight; I'd stockpiled right — choice organs along the way.

My secluded lab was dank and drab, yet blood flowed vivid red.

I diced and sliced, paid a steep price, for bringing back the dead.




In silent prayer, I stitched with care each alabaster limb.

The torso I chose had known few woes; so fit and finely trim.

Heavy-handed my work demanded perfection for creation,

a sculpted nose, creative throes, my greatest expectation.



Lend me a hand! photo tumblr_n9hjmtWrUe1rdq2opo1_500_zps28abc188.jpg


Choosing a poet's brain, the sutures skeined from sternum to its head,

my scalpel blade assured 'twas staid to reanimate the dead.

Sutured cessations, discolorations, would diminish soon, with time,

I looked down with awe at what I saw, my creation — so divine!



Jacob's ladders hummed, whilst currents strummed — O', exhilaration!

My senses numbed; my heartbeat drummed with great anticipation.

Electrodes placed along the face, affixed to his massive chest,

I switched it on, when came the dawn, yet still, I could not rest...




 photo zapani11_zpsffa8aa14.gif



Ozone fizzled; potions sizzled, as charged lightning took command,

laid low by death; it took one deep breath, then struggled once to stand.

With jubilation, ecstatic gyrations, surely meant to gloat,

As I inched closer, losing composure, it seized me by the throat.



You'd kill me?” I cried in vain, “'Twas I created you!”

I caught his stench,  my hands unclenched, his eyes stared icy blue.

So very slow, spoken soft and low, I could but scarcely hear,

Father?” he whispered — my sanity blistered — it slowly drew me near...


 

His ghastly face, so stitched and laced, from sutures sewn by hand,

drooped in sadness, I toyed with madness; as he now rose to stand.

Yes!” I cried, “You are my son, you'd take my life as yours begins?”

Dead eyes brightened, he spoke, unfrightened — "I'm man, thus I am sin."



 photo Spawn_of_Frankenstein_ALIVE_by_Nightowl_Ghoul_zps2c829fb9.jpg


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Share A Story In A Poem contest entry

Recognized


Mary Shelly's (then Mary Wolstonecraft Godwin) Frankenstein was actually written on sort of a dare. While vacationing in Switzerland with Lord Byron, Mary and her future husband Percy Shelly and friends were housebound during inclement weather. To entertain themselves, they began talking, telling each other stories. The dare comes about when Lord Byron challenged the members of the group to to see who could create a supernatural tale. Mary Shelly had a nightmare as a result of the ghost stories and began to draft Frankenstein the next day.

Many stories and movies have had similar plots to Shelly's frightening tale. H.P. Lovecraft's Re-animator uses a similar theme, however a mysterious potion created by the madman doctor West is the catalyst for re-animating dead tissue in that tale.

Man never bodes well when trying to play God.

Thanks for reading, I hope you've enjoyed all of it; the animations and pictures, but most important of all, the wording and the message. Were man truly able to do this; create a living, breathing reanimated mass of dead tissue and give it life, it would be a creature without a soul, a beast filled with nothing resembling any semblance of humanity... save mankind's own sin.

As always ~ Pleasant Screams.


 photo tumblr_l7ziwflDME1qb7evco1_5001_zps43cfe240.gif
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