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I Blame the Scientists

In the middle of the stage, dressed in the breath of dry ice fog and laser laced face stitches; Frankenstein rose from the floor with a white Rickenbacker 360 in his right hand plugged up in his exposed heart beating faster than a Neal Peart string of acid laced triplets and all amped up to a pair of Fender ’65 Deluxe Reverbs dangling from his decaying ear lobes. Blood dripped from Frank’s fingers as he slashed chords. The “Stein” screamed lyrics that sliced his lips as the crowd of 25, 435 bald scientists in white lab coats, all snorting coke, and drinking strawberry Kool-Aid held lab burners in the air chanting FRANK – EN – STEIN, FRANK – EN – STEIN, FRANK – EN – STEIN.
Sud-den-ly to most, and in slow motion to the science nerds on quaaludes, Frankenstein collapsed and registered a 9.0 Richter Scale earthquake that preceded a Mount St. Helen resurrection on the stage that left nothing but the fading sound of sizzling crack pipes. Frankenstein was dead along with all of scientists who created him.

It was such a waste of a fine guitar and amps.
Damn the scientists!

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13 thoughts on “I Blame the Scientists

  1. hahaha…this is a rip…and def creative approach….dang the scientist trying to figure all the secrets and creation…i feel rather sad for frank…at least he got a good couple licks in on the axe….there is solace in that…smiles.

  2. This poem is amazing – it invites you to Rush [see what I did in response to yuor Neil Peart line :-)] through it to the end, but it repays slower, more thoghtful reading too. Fine story-telling – and at least these scientists didn’t try to understand Frank by dissecting him…

  3. I too enjoyed the reference to Rush (I saw a concert 20 years ago) and the wild ego run amok of the scientist/creators. Fantastic and engaging storytelling, I’ve missed reading your creative work. Thanks so much for joining the prompt!

    • He was born in Ontario and has a gettaway place up here. (Peart not Frankenstein). Science can be a good thing, but it has changed the landscape of music and all art in general so much, that sometimes it seems we forget how good it feels to hold a paintbursh in our hands, a wooden instrument that doesn’t run through an electronic gizmo, and pencil, or pen when writing and create without any techno filters. The shorter distance and less influenced distance between our heart and our art the better in my book, even though I do play around with some of sciences intrusions:) Thanks for your visit!

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