What a mistake you’ve made, Doctor,
What hobbled-together harbinger of horror have you awoken in me,
What misplaced mortality have your conjured out of an electrical storm and organs that don’t belong?
A heart beats in this cranium, throbbing, seeking solace in the syndrome of this stapled together forehead;
Intestines where the lungs ought be, drawing shit into the bloodstream with every drawn breath, pumping excrement for the sanguine stuff instead;
And two kidneys, altogether absent to filter out the muck, so that bile and putrescence courses eternally through these ducts making dementia upon what I am fed.
How could you, Doctor, construct such a monstrosity,
What pernicious deviation made you think I’d be a good idea,
What misplaced morality could have quieted your conscience when you called for that last switch flipped and overturned?
Not bred, not of woman borne, not a soul within this maelstrom can there therein burn,
Just an endless stream of pain and a cursing of your name,
Deserving every ounce of blame as they’re battening down the door,
And their torches, never seldom, are becoming more than welcome, so your monster will be well-done when the FIRE eats your work and more,
So in this will cease my worried dreaming, and my endless nights of screaming, every malignant skewed and streaming feeling your monster has endured.