BASTARDS

I'm finally going to take the plunge and attempt to revise the massive sequence of poems titled "Bastards: The Terror Science Creates." It is my attempt at bringing science fiction into my poetry.

What Worlds We Create

I. THE ACCOMPLICE

I was his friend,

assistant,

confidante,

but most of all,

his accomplice.

I saw his Bastards for the

monsters they were,

the Doctor

for the monster

he had become.

There were no parlor tricks,

no circus mirrors--

only the twisted faces

born from the desires

of a madman

with time on his hands.

(There is nothing more dangerous

than a madman with time on his hands.)

And yet,

I too am mad, as mad as he.

I watched, I watched

and did nothing.

II. THE BASTARDS

Call us Bastards,

the dark corners of the mind

kept tucked away, quiet

materialized in fangs and glory.

We nibbling away at our creator’s

fingertips, toenails and sanity

squealing naked through nightmares

and spitting into the ears of young

make starving and sleepless

sift time through smell

and eclipse the night.

Some will pray for death.

Others know it has already come.

III. THE DOCTOR

Create and godless be.