Monday, March 01, 2010

Zombie Love

Is this the place?
They said it was the place
Where small evils rule and sagging cuties cruise
And fat clumsy zombies hump themselves into a frenzy
In the dead of night. So is it, any such?
They said I could just drop in,
They’re always home at night…

Is this the place where hideous hot-blooded zombies
Wake and fall in love and rut in mud,
Ring silent silver bells in heat, reproduce as such,
And wear each other's fingers out?
They rush ahead, but don’t they know
Those fingers, lips, and tongues
Will fall off soon and turn to mush and dust?

This is the place where maiden aunts
Point out that even youthful bosoms
Must turn concave at last without a touch of mirth
And sport the smell of must
As much as lust and lavender
Or damp asshole and chilly earth.
Oh God, they’re getting up, they’re crawling out!

They still can yearn for love and touch even if only
Stitches, spit, and formaldehyde hold their insides in,
Even if love stinks or drools too much in bed
Or most lose all mortal pleasure in its exquisite touch
When thick dark discharges ooze and spread like murk
Across their once-expansive now breathless breastwork.


Current draft: 3/1/2010
Created on 12/26/2009 11:34 AM


Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)