Modern Prometheus

This is a poem I wrote to reflect upon a larger story I might begin writing sometime in the future. I want to make sure there is some interest in the subject.

Frankenstein

(Modern Prometheus)

From clay it is formed by the hands of mere mortal

A being it is called

immortal.

From flesh construed from bone and sinew

attached by skin, cold and damp patches of tightly wrought flesh.

It's limbs connected by surgery

dissolvable stitches, so as to hide it's monstrous identity

and all that is visible along the length of it's neck and face

are lines of pink scar-tissue.

A monster it is called,

though not of any association with a creature

other than man is called

sometimes a monster.

Upon its completion

the sockets of it's eyelids peel open

revealing its watery lens

clouded with a veil of cataracts.

It looks around blindly

and utters a few inarticulate gasps

that its creator finds to be some form of speech.

Black and green bile trickles out of it's pale lips

as it mutters incoherently

what sounds like

I

Live.

An entity that permits itself to live

and destroys its creator

is thus

it's own deity

and provides for itself the means to survive.

From stolen flesh

and dissected ligaments

and chilled organs

supplanted with a mind without soul

it's endeavor has become something catastrophic.

For it's intellect is superior to that of the mind that made it.

It has become self-sufficient

self aware.

Because all man is a machine, delicate, intricate in design

Created by and for a purpose.

To live.

To survive.

To find a purpose in and of itself

For with it's master's brain it calculates its own destiny

and seeks retribution to ease its own confusion.

To make all like Himself.

To become the architect,

the originator of life... and the decider of death.

 

"I Live and survive, upon creation of this body and inspiration of my mind.

I kill to create a more perfect being

devoid of hatred

needless of arrogance.

A godlike machine

to rule

to live.

Author's Note

This is by no means supposed to be a perfect poem, and was written in a matter of minutes to kind of plan out how I would want the story to go. As writing this and thinking about it, almost all of science fiction and many horror stories relate to Mary Shelly's work "Frankenstein", and which is mainly the inspiration for many stories about the suplanting of humans with robots or vampires or whatever. It is for the most part a subcatagory of horror writing that lies within the very soul of the writer who attempts to attain a form of morality in their work. For it is mainly a moral issue, for whether we are entitled to create something, and how we should go about it if it is part of our purpose as beings to do so? I don't plan on answering these questions at the moment but maybe when I get around to writing this story(ies) that maybe I will have those answers. For now, though, I fear that the questions will have to suffice.

Reviews

[.R.P.]

This reads like prose. I know you mentioned this is almost brainstorming for a piece of writing you have not decided on yet but it is poignant enough for you to expand it into prose or simply just polish this up and submit it or shop it out on its own. It stands on its own. And by no means is the concept alien to readers but it also is not redundant, its a relevant issue, if not with writers generally than with humans. I felt the first five lines of the third stanza could have been their own topical stanza, just a thought, and I say it reads like prose because it is comfortable to read, it is conversational and as a prose writer I appreciate that.

[J.L Hunter]

You're absolutely right about that. It is mainly prose. Reading it over now almost a couple weeks since first writing it, all three stanzas could probably be condensed into a paragraph and still work well. Thank you again for your support.