Damn it all! One would hope that the tasty flesh
of the whore and her dog would slow
the hunger creeping throughout my soul, I've licked blood
off the broad (and my fingers) but my thirst
remains unquenched, alas, I'll just gnaw on a knucklebone as I drag
myself over to the Moulin Rouge in search of more food-giving life.
I was the greatest living poet, back when I could claim to have life.
Now, because of toxic waste, I consume living flesh
in order to satisfy this unending starvation, time drags
on for enternity after eternity, as the plague slowly
encircles the earth. Briefly, I wonder what thirsty
zombie mosquito's feast upon-living or undead blood?
A man wielding a cross and a torch approaches, his blood
sprays in an arc from his jugular, and the lucky man loses his life.
A spiked plasma punch, warm sweet elixer, a momentary lapse in thirst.
If only there was a decent poem to critique, but paper sticks to my flesh
and my eyeballs have liquefied anyhow...I drank them slow
with a nicely chilled Pinot. There's nothing like eye-wine when the evening drags.
A small cry belies a hiding mother and child-I drag
them from behind their shanty and bathe in blood.
The child, tender and succulent, I choose to slow-
cook it into a fluffy quiche. I chew the woman's uterus, a life
giving womb becomes my death dinner. Mmmmm, slut-flesh.
Yea, I fill the air with a "Gggghhhhhhh..." my cry of thirst.
I remember vaguely when women and music could slake my thirst,
instead of recently living bodies, the sound of teeth dragging
across bones causes my still heart to rejoice, but my manflesh
cannot rise, tis a hollow pleasure now. Oh bloody
hell! Being an irate, arrogant zombie-critic is no life
for a brilliant (if decomposing) mind. Goddamn, do I walk slow.
Perhaps this will not be so bad after all, zombies are slow
But undead, eventually we will tire of all this violence and thirst
For brain-food again, for words and poetry, to create life
In literature when non exists on Earth. The awful epic zombie poems will drag
on and accumulate until I take up my pen (or finger) and write critiques in blood,
teasing gems from the piles of rubble, bones, and rotting flesh.
So let the slow eternity drag;
Hell's hot thirst is doused not with blood,
But with everlasting words carved in flesh.
