alive

people have wondered about Frankenstein's dick.
not the Dr.  but the Monster.
people have been asking questions about Frankenstein's dick.
people want to know.
people wish Mary Godwin Wollstonecraft Shelley (wife of
Percy Bysshe Shelley) had told them.
about the dick.
about Frankenstein's dick.
people wish she'd have made the story sexier.
people have been clamoring.
forming little garrulous knots and murmuring.
"i wish she'd have told us about Frankenstein's dick" they say.
"i wish she'd have told us."
lying naked on the table, the fully assembled monster had a
big big big big big male member.
she might have said.
the phallus swelled and lifted its phallic head as the rich dark
blood began to circulate through the monster's body.
she might have said.
the first thing the jolt of electricity effected
was the instant turgidity in the monster's male part that caused
it to come to life and
spurt
its white manly liquid instantaneously and copiously, and
fill the room with the scent of tall muscular maleness in all its
musky earthy
overripeness.
she might have said.
but she didn't.
and people have wondered about Frankenstein's dick ever since.
little mumbles of curiosity.
little whimpers of prurient interest.
little shouts and pants and moans
from under their sheets
in thick summer nights.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015.)