Thursday, June 01, 2006

An Introduction...

What can I say? "The Frankenstein Madrigals" literally changed my life. I remember it as if it was yesterday, when actually it was two days ago. I was on a routine flight from Denver to Regina, Sask.
I recall making a joke to our navigator as to how our destination rhymed with a certain part of the female anatomy.
I mean, just say it - Saskatchewan! Unfortunately, our reverie was interrupted by news from flight control that an ice storm was fast approaching. Despite my year of experience flying, I'd never helmed an aircraft in an ice storm. Figuring that this was as good a time as any, I asked my navigator if he'd give me a blow-job. Instead he handed me a copy of "The Frankenstein Madrigals". We landed without incident and while waiting for our next flight, I started to read "The Frankenstein Madrigals", a few of which are reproduced below. I'm still reading it, by the way. I don't read very fast. I'm what they used to call "slow". They also used to call me "That Retarded Bastard Who Always Wants Blow-Jobs". But now they call me:
- Ludivico Tata, Mayor of Spokane, WA

The Frankenstein Madrigals

A Simple Life

Frankenstein is confused and frightened
by new technology. A steam locomotive
is terrifying and foul. A mirror is a tease
and a liar.
All Frankenstein needs is a shiny spoon,
a wheel and an American Flag.
A shiny spoon to stare at for hours on end.
A wheel to hurl through the air for exercise.

And an American Flag to wipe his ass with.
Because he's bitter and lashing out.
Y'know, 'cause of the whole reanimated,
bunch of body bits, thing.

C’est La Vie

Cobbled together from many different parts,
Frankenstein is rueful that his creator didn't go out on a limb
and endow him with say, the penis of a horse.
But on the other hand, what good is having a gigantic cock if you live alone in the woods?

The Best 6 Months of His Life

One winter, Frankenstein lived in a cave
and fornicated daily with a hibernating bear.

A Soupçon

Once, consumed by hunger, Frankenstein made soup.
There's no market in the woods, so he had to improvise.
He made the soup from some grass, twigs, dirt, rocks and a
bible he'd found. It was the most disgusting thing he'd ever eaten.
In frustration, he tore apart some chickens that lived on a
farm over the hill and threw their eggs at the farmer's window.


Sometimes, Frankenstein would lie on a grassy knoll
and look at the clouds and try to see shapes in the clouds.
But the clouds always looked the same –
like puffy, roundish, white things.
Unbeknownst to Frankenstein,
his brain had once belonged to a middle manager.

Fleetwood Mac Sucks

Oh, lost, lonely Frankenstein!
Hazy, random thoughts drift in and out of his consciousness.
The woods are his home.
A puppy brings happiness.

And solves his hunger for the day.

What a Wacky World!

One day, an advertising executive wandered into the woods.
He chanced upon Frankenstein, who was sleeping peacefully
under the warm afternoon sun.
Inspired, he began taking pictures and jotting down ideas
in his notebook for an advertising campaign.
This went on for awhile until Frankenstein was suddenly
awakened by a nightmare. He'd been dreaming that one day,
an ivy-league candy-ass, posing as a tough-talkin' he-man,
would bring ruination to the greatest country in the world.
And no, it's NOT Canada, you self-satisfied, toque-wearing,
socialized medicine, pot smoking, gay-marryin' hockey-hair heads.

Anyway, now awake and very angry, Frankenstein snapped
the neck of that advertising executive as though it were but a twig.
He kept the fancy camera though.
Years later, Frankenstein's great-grandson, Leonard Cohen,
sold that very camera to an antique dealer in upstate New York.

Sporting Wood

After a long day spent yelling at trees,
There’s nothing Frankenstein likes more
Than to spend the night howling at trees.

Why Does Frankenstein Soldier On?


Well, more accurately, the hope that he’ll find another hibernating bear.


Blogger yishu said...

this is hilarious. :D

5:42 PM  
Blogger Adam Rex said...

You have an insight into Frankenstein that I can only hope to approach with my silly poems about sandwiches and ostracization. Bless you, sir.

8:21 PM  

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