August 11, 2012

Last night while I was sleeping
the zombies came again,
down on the street they walked about
stumbled, shuffled, fell,
some with parts missing,
all with raggedy clothes, grey skin,
they moaned, like they do in the movies,
as though they’d all been to movie school,
or as though movie directors
specializing in zombie movies
had all visited planets
frequented by zombies,
or were all actually
zombie’s themselves,
only know one ever noticed,
because they were all zombies aswell.

Last night while I was sleeping
the dead were out again,
bewildered ghosts with lost ID,
some had socks stitched with names.

Underneath my window
it’s a day of the dead parade
and all my ghosts upstairs joined in
and railed against the rail.

Zombie monsters swaggered and postured
like Michael Jackson’s living dead,
broken jigsaws reading Igor,
yesterdays besuited men.

I sometimes see them shopping
or walking in the town;
zombie flashbacks on the bus
or rocking in the isle.

I must not think of zombies
before I go to bed.
I do not want to wake one day
to find that I am dead.

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