Friday, November 7, 2008

Bride of Frankenstein


“I have reinvented many things.
Other men, for example.”
—Paul Valery

ELSA LANCHESTER—I reclined leisurely on the cold metal operating table—trying to go back to sleep but I wasn’t able to—all I could do was stare up at the Laboratory ceiling—in the ancient stone Tower—that belonged to the family of Count Frankenstein for centuries—the knobs on my neck still warm from the shocking voltages of lightening—having surged through me thoroughly from the tips of my toes to my art deco wig—even down through my shocked pussy transplant—that dainty little piece of virgin hair-pie—that once belonged to the dearly beloved minister’s daughter—who unfortunately drown in the nearby lake under rather mysterious circumstances—much to the grief of the local citizenry—but much to glee & satisfaction of Doctor Pretorius—and Karl the dirty-minded humpback assistant—an awful incorrigible snatch-snatcher from way back when—my new-found stitched-together pussy—being the most familiar of all my new organs—the tender teenage transplant organ I felt the most rapport with—its anxious eager-beaver waiting repertoire only to ready to be brought back to life all the way once again—to be resuscitated & resurrected from damp cold Darkness—rescued from the Land of the Dead—and ratcheted up one cocky-click at a time—by some huge precocious young Transylvanian trick—with plenty of time & patient inches to spare—enough to make it all worth while—having been murdered, amputated, transplanted, then electrocuted & brought back to life as the most vital organ of all—the tight proud pouty pussy of Elsa Lanchester—The Bride of Frankenstein!!!

BORIS KARLOFF—How long I’ve waited—how long I’ve thought of my new wife and our Honeymoon tonight—how long have I dreamed of this moment—the aureate Re-making of Monster me—the Lucidity of making a good Lay—the birth of both of us in Count Frankenstein’s brain—the fusing of word & idea in Doctor Pretorius’ Will to Power—the moonlight slanting nectarine down thru the clarinet-slit windows of the Tower—one only has to look at my Bride to know how little she knows now—but how much she’ll learn after it’s all over—gentle diversions like the sound of the wind in the guitar wiring—the scudding clouds above the tall tilting turrets—where the kites keep calling my name—my love, my suffering, my insights into being human again—I’ll be her patient guide—plagiarizing the past, finding the essence of my romantic insanity, helping her to feel the intensity of at last being totally human—but more than human—helping her to be Superhuman—divorcing her from both Life and Death—letting it dominate us like it does with mere humans—so our all-too-human Love—eclipses the only peephole in the Tower door—the agility of our Imagination blocking all thought—even unattractive or unnecessary Thoughts—like the surrealistic chains & clattering trolleys—raising her upward through the high-pitched harmonics of contemporary static-electricity artistry—filling her with the electrifying brutality of new flesh out of Nothingness—taunted by the morbid hallucinatory flights of doves, winged horses, angels and albatrosses—held aloft up there in the Tower heights—the wind whispering like Michelangelo—the lightening speaking like Picasso—speaking thusly showing off lack of modesty as courage—the Lucidity of Mad Scientist ambitions…

ERNST THESIGER—Posing as Doctor Pretorius back then—was like learning a foreign language—somehow akin to speaking in Tongues—far from Mathematics—more fluid, less rigid, more unnoticed, more lost—experiencing not so much pain—as the difficulties such Superman feelings were bound to impose—on the fine stitch-work & surgery that held them together—the Creature & his beloved Bride—both creations of my artistic technique—a technique of ingenious gestures, Weimar intuition and primitive prehistoric Lascaux art—shedding all feelings for modern clichés—ramifying the melancholy idea of Monster Love—turning it loose on a decadent wasted world—my morbid intelligence thinking vast Armies of the Undead—probably a trivial thought to most—but to me it was an anticipated direction necessary & irrevocable—like migrant birds or fish—a function of coming home—declaring the whole world mine—down to the smallest baroque detail—neither verbose or restrained—no explanations would be necessary—nor would any be forthcoming—the Age of Innocence would be over—from this Superhuman couple merging light & darkness—love and hate—the world would be reborn anew—and the Frankenstein Dynasty would control the Planet!!!

COLIN CLIVE—I was weak, I was vulnerable, I was queer—Valerie Hobson knew my secret—Elizabeth von Frankenstein my all-knowing beloved wife—she tried to keep me to the narrow road of normalcy and the missionary position—but I had all these distractions to deal with—like Gavin Gordon playing that nelly Lord Byron and Douglas Walton camping it up as Percy Shelly—but even worse of course was Ernest Thesiger the terrible evil Dr. Pretorius—who knew my deepest secrets—who catered to my secret desires—and who promised me what my decadent heart truly desired—the relief in knowing there was somebody I could confide to—the horror of finding out that somebody would grant me my wishes—and yet at what a terrible price—my only thoughts being—“What was the Bride thinking now?”—was it the same thing I was thinking too—the Closet Case works from the inside out—but never gets out—partially because he can’t and partially because he doesn’t want to—so that in my mind & heart I was incapable of doing so—oh Lordy what more can I say than that—I’d been in the dark so long I’d believe anything Pretorius would tell me—especially at night when I was lonely—pacing the Laboratory in the lonely moonlight—until the bodies started being transported late at night—coming to the castle & then the Laboratory—from the hospital, the morgue, the crossroad gallows & the family crypts—Dwight Frye as Karl the busy Hunchback—nefariously looking the other way—humping his way in the gimpy twilight glow of torches—his head hanging down & his rump sticking up—while the dead bodies were cataloged & put on ice—their eyes dilated seemingly fond of being dead—Pretorius busy as usual—making order out of disorder—playing God amidst all the confusion—telling a tale to himself only he could tell—his pessimistic view of life—amused & disgusted with it—not afraid of switching things around—turning the Living into the Dead—and the Dead into the magnificent Living Undead of Transylvania…

ELSA LANCHESTER—The dead are dead & the living are living—how little did I expect to wake up & find myself between both worlds—the veil remains along with the rage and sorrow—the mortal tongue sewn in my speechless mouth—the mortal lips dark green & covered with a smile—the long episode of ghostly body parts & lost language—each of my organs sewn into my new Bride’s body—my youthful pussy once buried in a coffin of solid bronze—only to be disinterred that very night—still covered by roses and funeral conversations still lingering in my ears—to what degree can one lose one’s personality?—to what degree can one regain it back again after death?—I once was quite talkative but now I’ve become moody & silent—will I consistently remain so—am I being dishonest with myself in adopting this new role?—when I meet my new Undead Husband will I chatter loudly?—or will I fall silent & quiet by the Beauty of it all?—What a shock when I first heard his words—Boris’ voice was like curse—neither angry or loving but totally in pain—his tongue falling out on the floor—because the stitches came undone—the howl of hurt when his right Eye bulged out too much from ogling me—hanging halfway down his face still staring at me—there went the Romance I’d been expecting so dearly—there were the cuts & bruises only a Beast could have—shapeless like a sac of potatoes instead of daffodils—even the mirrors in the Lab cracking & splintering in pain—such passion went into the surgeon’s keen scalpel—why not manly Beauty & glowing Adonis sunsets the result?—instead of writhing ugly distorted limbs and misplaced organs with their own haughty Egocentricities—a tight ball of creature anxiety and blind energy going in different directions—he wasn’t a Man of Honor—I saw how Colin Clive lusted after him—the immortal forces tied together by Pretorius the Pervert—picking the most monstrously otherworldly-endowed Strangler & Murderer in town—to provide what should have been Love’s most tender and loving Artistic device—neglecting to think what a dainty young lady I was—unlike Baron Frankenstein who was such a louche lover—fond of horsy young men—the moral import of our Honeymoon that Never Was—the neglected loving Bridegroom who’d Never Be—I could feel all my jilted disappointed organs unlacing at the same time—some sliding like Jello down my legs, others popping out in shocked horror like an overstuffed vest—other organs slinking out of me like Mr. Slinky—slinking off the table, down the stairs & into the dark Transylvanian woods—shamelessly humbling me with a shocking End to my tacky Tribulations—uplifting knowing surely rejoining me with the dead flowers & crypt of my once-undeadness—the indelicate intellect of Boris Karloff going berserk—seeing the uncouth discombobulating Climax of his Bridegroom-to-be—so much for all of Pretorius’ promises of virgin, uncorrupted, perfect Love—with another lovely Creature of the Undead—both the Count & Herr Doctor Professor hiding in the dark corners of the Laboratory—fearing the worse—the rage of Frankenstein rumbling & seething—giving up on all his hopes—for divinely perfect Dystopian Love & Death-in-Life—reaching for the Lever on the wall—(“Not the Lever!!! Please Not the Lever!!!)—pulling it down & blowing up everything—the Tower, the Castle, the evil Dream of Frankenstein.

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