rozk: (Default)

They eat as many of us as they can.
And then they slowly start to fall to bits.
It's a slow process. Cell by cell it hits.
Bones disconnect. They stumble. In a span

of weeks they will be rot, tatter and shard.
Some of us live. We hide. We eat cold food
from cans. Snare and kill rabbits. In a wood
we have a cabin. Our survival's marred

by what we've lost. The cities turn to dust
take art books music with them. We forget
all that we were,or loved or hoped for. Yet
the worst of all the things we lose is trust.

All strangers are the dead returned. Our fear
will go on killing, year by bloody year.
rozk: (Default)

And some are children. Thin, and fierce, and fast.
It takes them quickly, and it dries them out..
The old ones moan; the small dead children shout
and yell as if in playgrounds. They'll run past

you, double back. You see their teeth
and their dead eyes, and open bloodless wounds.
Their shrieks are wordless, just unthinking sounds.
And through their wounds you see dried bone beneath.

They're many. You can fight them off. You cut
them down, and trample them. Something will break
inside you. Once you thought it for hope's sake
you went on fighting. Bitter in your gut

an acid sense, that hope has told you lies.
The future's vicious jaws and mad dead eyes
rozk: (Default)

She is the walking dead. No matter who
she was before, you must burn her with flame
because the dead can never be the same
as they were once. And she will make you, too,

a thing that rots and staggers. Take a blade
and cut her head off. And ignore her moan.
She let them bite her. Left you all alone.
What sort of love was it that she displayed

by dying? Rotting? Soon her lovely face
will fall away; and soon her matted hair
will drop in clumps. You never knew despair
before you saw her die and rise. No trace

of her is left in it. And through your head
this thought runs– though I live, I too am dead.
rozk: (Default)
but apparently not.


They are so many. Stand on a high place
and watch them shamble. Gray as winter cloud
the sea of faces, and they moan so loud
it's like a scream. And every single face

is marked with all the signs of quick decay
and yet they still stand up, and wander round.
It's like a flood. Those standing on high ground
watch each last bit of dry land fall away

and know there's no way they can stop the tide.
Sooner or later tides will always turn
but meanwhile there's no wood for you to burn,
no food to eat, and no friend at your side.

They are all dead. Don't tell yourself the lie
that you'll survive. Just walk down there and die.
rozk: (Default)

Their bodies are a war zone – death and life
fight over them. Their bodies writhe and twitch.
Live cells kill rot - they moan because they itch.
It's like they burn. If you could take a knife

and slice into their flesh, it seethes and boils
like ants in civil war. Their burning bile
corrodes their guts and lights and liver while
digesting what they eat. Their guts in coils

knotting like rutting vipers. Mildewed eyes
are wet but not with tears. They may seem slow -
they are fermenting fiercely as they go,
They snatch our flesh – each bleeding handful buys

a moment. Soon their flesh falls off the bone -
each one will lie, and deliquesce, alone.
rozk: (Default)

If, shambling past, they smash a porcelain bowl,
a marble faun, perhaps embed a shard
inside their putrid foot,it may be hard
to understand their sudden frenzied howl

is ecstasy not pain. They all love art
but not as we do. Their long drawn out screams
are gorgeous music. Sometimes in your dreams
you hear it and it terrifies your heart.

That's just a fragment of its dark effect
on their decayed and very different brains.
Eyes drop out, ears fall off, but there are gains
refined and subtle senses. They select

the finest brains to eat. For them a taste
so fine, that, in our skulls, it's just a waste.
rozk: (Default)

We love, but do not love the flesh beneath,
our lover's skin – the subtle flow of veins
the net of nerves through which our love takes pains
should we require it. We may love their teeth

but not the pulp or gums; the blue-green eye
but not its socket. They are all too real -
it is a half-measure of love we feel-
Touches the fingers' tips and does not pry

into the quick. I know a girl whose skin
is lace and tatter. Her unbeating heart
is on display, and naked. Torn apart
her ribs its broken cage. Her brain within

her shattered skull is blue-green with decay.
Perhaps I'll give her my own heart today.
rozk: (Default)
The blank expressions, dull eyes, of each face
May lead you to believe they have no soul,
whereas their death and rebirth made them whole
united corpse and spirit in one place.

Their bodies punish sinners, free them too
to see the living God and serve His will.
It's Him who pulls them from the grave to kill
to tear apart, and bite, and gnaw, and chew.

His servants work their fingers to the bone.
Killing the clock around. It's how they pray
watching the movements of His face each day
He whispers that he knows them for His own.

And we pray too – we hope they'll pass us by
that only unbelieving sinners die.
rozk: (Default)

The dead are always at it. Like to kill
and tear and eat. But even more than those
They like to fuck. The moment that you close
huge oven doors on them, be sure they will

be screwing as they burn. Each black charred bone
is wrapped around another, charcoaled tongue
thrust into burned lips. They can fuck so long
because they do not breathe. You hear them moan

out in the night. It's not to terrify.
It's not all about you. They make the beast
with two backs. Or with five. Say two at least.
And when they catch and eat you, as you die

the ones whose teeth you feel don't lead the pack.
He's busy with three dead blondes round the back.
rozk: (Default)

You chop its head off. Takes you seven tries
to cut through gullet, vocal chords and spine.
It groans and growls. Perhaps this is a sign
that it is conscious, even though its eyes

are bloody, blank. The head will try to bite
as it rolls on the ground. Will break a tooth
chewing at stones and soil. You see the truth
but hide from what you know. These creatures might

in their dead way be more alive than you.
The fingers you cut off swinging your knife-
each one of them has its own wriggling life.
Cut off its ear- that will start creeping too.

Blast them to bits- see how each bit behaves.
The chunks will fight to stay out of their graves.
rozk: (Default)

The army comes in tanks and jeeps. You wave
then duck as bullets whizz close to your head.
You cheer – they mow down acres of undead.
Then learn it isn't you they've come to save.

Their bodies armoured, goggles on their eyes
You can't tell where they look, or if they smile
You sense they plan to be here for a while
They bring in trailers. Men in suits and ties

arrive by car, seem to be in command.
They catch your neighbour's children in a net
Look at them briefly. Club them. You forget
to stay down. And they shoot you out of hand.

The last thing that you hear is someone shout
'Let God sort live and undead vermin out!'
rozk: (Default)

Some of them run at you – you must be fast
to hope to get away. And some are slow.
The key to your survival is to know
which ones are which. There was a time, now past,

when they all shambled, all stank of the grave
that they'd left recently. And they were made
by hand, by craftsmen. You were still afraid.
But they were tame, somebody's household slave

The quick wild ones are feral, a disease
that you'll catch if they catch you. Yet they treat
the old slow kind politely if they meet.
Offer them bits of people. On their knees.

The dead are snobs. The stench of long decay
outranks the slick young beast who rose today.
rozk: (Default)
Zombie2- For [ profile] karenhealey

To have the Formerly Alive to tea
is awkward. Wire his jaws, so he can't bite
your other guests –is forced to be polite.
You chain him up, and hang on to the key

so no one sets him loose. Make a puree
of brains and blood and feed him through a straw.
Toast it on crumpets? He prefers it raw.
Let your friends try it -tell them it's pate.

Your special guest will moan and toss his head.
Put down some paper towels to catch the drips,
and best not talk of the Apocalypse
to someone who is risen, but still dead.

Observe these rules, take a good hostess' pains.
Once guests have left, blow out his stinking brains.
rozk: (Default)
Zombie 1

The worst thing would be this. To feel the bite
growing inflamed, the poison spreading through
your blood. You lose your mind; your body too
becomes a stranger. And of course you fight.

Remember strawberries' crush on your tongue,
Sing Mozart to yourself – La Ci Darem
La Mano. Plead with friends and then watch them
recoil in horror, It will not be long.

The virus eats you. And then you eat brains.
You shamble and you groan and you decay.
You have no longer anything to say
with all that wit and charm. And of the pains

you feel, the worst as beauty, brilliance go
to rot, will be to be that thing , and know.

April 2017

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