The war ceased
And deceased
Telling their tales
Red the same
With blood mingling
As parents and children
At won’s mercy
The fodder of another
Bequeathing its soul prize
And ultimate price
as Victor
Victor Frankenstein
With monstrous mettle
So easily mistaken for living
As dead
And littering history
Sow trying
A pieced together humanity
Only Abel too
Udder incomprehensibly
As accompany buy
That haunting refrain
Hell to the victor
That vanquishing breed
And human raze
Anew create or
Victor
Winning at any cost is the expedient reality of war. That cost is our humanity. As I AM known to say, “Truth is the first casualty of war; most of the rest are civilians.” The monstrous hell that is war cannot be won any more than an earthquake can be won. Disaster capitalism can profit from warmongering, but such a victory can only be earned with a shit lode of lowest common denominations.
This poem uses the classic image and story of Frankenstein, a tale of confusion over what is life and what is death, an iconic creature that traffics in grunts, a monstrous alien-nation whose soul solace is murderous conspiracy wrapped up in the death of innocents. The will to create is corrupted by the ambition to control life, ultimately killing what it seeks to master. Never the less, in the dance of life and death, giving life is the expansive truth more sow than taking life. When we give, it is ours to give; when we take it is an other’s.
