Frankenstein's Schadenfreude


“No one is ever holy 
without suffering.” 
― Evelyn Waugh, 
Brideshead Revisited

No one can really hate a saint—
could they? They can’t really hate God 
either. When they want to Hate Him and 
His saints they have to find something like
themselves and pretend it's God and then 
they can hate that instead, these humans

It’s easy to hate a Monster like me—
these miserable dirty ignorant despicable
small town petty bourgeoisie child-idiots
hate me & Ygor & the Baron Frankenstein
because I remind them of themselves
blaming Colin Clive for reminding them

I can still feel the sizzling Voltage of the—
Kites high above getting zapped by the
Transylvanian lightening storm blowing
down on the sullen village and castle
where the Godz electrocuted me into the
foul existence of my Transhuman Life

My throbbing neck bolts revived me—
from the Sleep that Never Awakes &
yet here I am again, sutured together
with a Host of Hellish Companions 
haunting each other's every tortured 
tidbit of Reminiscent Past Lives

It’s like being Born Again in Hell—
where one is tortured all over again
by the ignorant Subprolitariat of Hades
not knowing they’re already dead but
sensing our returned presence as a
threat to their ongoing Forgetfulness

I hate Baron Frankenstein as well—
so does my criminal congregation of
shanghaied organs: my brain, liver,
kidneys, eyes, ears, fingers, toes,
every hair of my head standing up,
all the way down to my dead Prick
that hates Elsa Lanchester the bitch
Bride Ernst Thesiger stuck me with!!!

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