A Z Xmas

Z is never alone, not with his collective hive mind
that keeps moving, moving towards getting to know
more people. Even on a sexless Christmas, where
I played the yuletide eunuch and sulked, he was still
the light of the living dead. He gifted you a stop watch
just to see how fast you could get away from him.
The gold cracker you shared split and sent silly string
over the gherkin jar. Z laughed so hard that it tipped
over and sent briney green all over your cherry red
Christmas slip. He apologised and went and ate the dog.
‘The life of the party' both was and wasn't appropriate.
Older relatives whispered into mistletoe napkins and
asked if he was all there. He has more brains than Einstein,
but they're all in storage and the cells are dead, the synapses
out of range. It doesn't make for great holiday conversation,
and the game of charades was unforgivingly slow, but there
were certainly no left-overs come boxing day, the turkey
nothing but dry bones, a grave reminder of more fun.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

Hell Opens

Solitude goads the sun
across indelible flatness.
Forty degree heat
on the Mundi Mundi plain
can perish logic,
drain water cans.

Goannas gulp at insects
only they can see,
ants form a guard of honour
for a carcass
stretched out on the sand
bones picked clean.

Crows flap on a dry tide,
fire stoked clouds fumble
on the fetid pant of dusk.
In a nonsensical wander
of sun stroke
my gait is slow.

I have lost my dillybag,
hiking mate has disappeared.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

Kenebowe

naked and head
less racing across
quaked rubble
splashing through dark
blood waters
in search of their own
poor lost
heads haunted by mass
orgy decapuccino
trembling lust after
brains for breakfast
served on guillotine
blades wedged be
neath each shattered
neck bone
greedy eyes free

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

In Laws

we were dead before the sun sank
sitting on deckchairs
long drinks from each others skull
watching the birds peck
their eyes out

it didn't stop you groaning
about the heat
foaming about the
price of petrol
or stop me
from paying the rent
in advance

you got up and your arm
fell to the floor
I knew the signal well
ready to be eaten
the flies buzzing
as I pulled off your
red dress

we haven't slept in weeks
pacing the floors
nothing on television
watching white noise anyway
in the killing hours
when the dark slides
when the biting begins

the dog has been gone for days
you wear its lead
walk yourself
up the street
chasing children
to stay fit

I finish chewing
you adjust your neck
your parents are coming this weekend
we need to clear out the freezer
sharpen the mower blades
bury our cat
clean the golf clubs
ready our brains
for conversation

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

Sedatephobia

(Fear.of.silence),,,then[…]*notsolipsistic,no?maybe,well…nowhitespaceallowed

no,,,,,;,,,or__Justwaystoq–u–e–l–land/orfuelsi…lence.Thiseerie

lumberofdiscombobulating[…]pau,singtheoryandsymbolofn

oises–chatter

&mumblekeepspending&don'tlistentotheinternal––––

deadaironradioitmakestheheartbeatskiporjumpor…heytheworldneedsmorelookat

me&mylonelinessstatements@myhouse.com!asiftheicecreamlickers~absorb

edintheirinnersoothing~wereattentivetothesufferingoftribalviolence::::theserenity

&stillnessoffakebreastsonTV,youwon'thear

agratuitousswellingofunderpantsortalkofasheisenhausenbauhaus\ass

emblageofcalm.com.solitudehitting

thepianokeysat3inthemorning.(onlyincertainplaces)peaceiselusive

yetsomehowitcontinuestoremainplausible.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

She is the Cat's Mother

She stands beneath the trees on rue de Belleville. She always has a cigarette, but never asks for one. She asks for money. She asks: Vous auriez pas une pièce? She disappears. She reappears. She looks the same: wet, whipped by the wind, beaten. She asks for money. She disappears again and I wonder if this time she is dead. When she is there, she is there at seven o'clock. She wears an anorak but looks as cold as a sock in the snow. She doesn't look hungry. She doesn't look crazy. She looks at you. She disappears then reappears days, weeks later. She isn't dead. She asks for money. She asks: Vous auriez pas une pièce? She knows the answer. She smokes her cigarette. She doesn't smoke her cigarette. She holds herself. She doesn't hold herself. She has long grey hair and red scoured cheeks. She is almost invisible. She is a morning cup of coffee. She is the rhythm of days. She disappears, reappears again. She is a broken heart. She is the saying: Look what the cat dragged in. She isn't dead. When she is there, she is there before the sun.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

Aargh! It is the Zombie Apocalypse! Run away!

(After Tom Cho)

 

Aargh! It is the zombie apocalypse! Run away!
But I'm not worried – I can drive a fire truck!
My fire truck is satisfyingly big and red and high off the ground.
I announce my presence with the siren:
I am coming, zombies! (It wails!) I will run you down! (loudly!)
I will blow you away with my water cannon!

I am the leader of a group of firefighters-turned-zombie hunters!
In my crew are Bruce Willis, Gary Oldman and Robert Downey Jr.
We are so tough the zombies don't know what to do.
They just shuffle about and moan for human flesh.
They don't know about our axes or the water cannon
or that we can escape up ladders if we need to.
A fire truck is all you need in a zombie apocalypse!

Bruce Willis is my second-in-command.
He is good in a crisis.
He takes the heads off zombies with his axe as we drive past.
(He also looks sexy in the firefighter uniform.
In fact, we all look sexy in the firefighter uniform.
But not only does the uniform make us look sexy, it also protects us from zombies:
Zombies can't bite through the hi-tech, flame resistant materials that our jackets
and trousers are made from.
Zombies are also allergic to red braces. Yes, it's true!)

We are fighting a bunch of zombies in Bourke Street Mall.
Unfortunately Gary Oldman is killed in a gruesome way.
Then he comes back from the dead. Oh no!
But he is not a zombie!
He is a baddie who is somehow responsible for the zombie outbreak in the first place.
I try and seduce him with love and show him the error of his ways.
Bruce Willis doesn't like this and shows his anger by decapitating some zombies
in a vicious manner.
Gary Oldman is still a baddie, but he is a sexy baddie.
I can't win him over.
He escapes, narrowly avoiding being killed gruesomely again, this time by Bruce's axe.

Now I am sad. It is hard being the leader during a zombie apocalypse.
I drape red braces around my body and sit on the top of the fire truck eating a Kit Kat.
Robert Downey Jr. climbs up and quietly sits next to me.
‘It's hard being different,' he says.
He undoes the buttons on his shirt .
I am about to stop him and say I've had enough of seduction for one day,
but then I see that he is showing me the skin of his torso
which is covered in white, downy feathers.
Before I can stop myself, I reach a hand out and touch him.
His feathers are the softest thing I have ever touched,
softer even than kittens and that really soft toilet paper.
Robert Downey Jr. looks at me with sad eyes.
Then, without explaining anything, he does up the buttons on his shirt and climbs down.
Then I don't feel quite so alone.

I finish my Kit Kat and stand on top the fire truck.
I put my hands on my hips and call everyone's attention to me,
rallying them together and motivating them with my words.
I am so butch they are confused about whether I'm a boy or a girl.
Then we go and kill all the zombies
and liberate the people hiding in Myers Department Store!
It is a good day to be driving a fire truck and leading a bunch of
firefighters-turned-zombie hunters!

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

deep in richmond

deep in Richmond among the rank

Peugeots, les ateliers bijoux, and the wastrel

Green sky, i smoke with my

concubines

on the verandah of a dripping portugeuse colonial

villa Swan st. Blue toucan neon, you are as gay as

the day Was spent hungover in bed on a down-

stream blow-up phantasm of harvesting lilypads &

unspent German shells in a pond of merrie ongelonde

from a travel brochure with a stubborn hardon

Blazer rich with your own smell, camembert

spoiling in the glare and the curlicue knife's gentle

suggestions of a stabbing frenzy, because the one

You want is the one who hasn't the least heat for you

Your brown haird secretary from Braunschweig who

Plays with everything at the table and looks infinitely

Away it's pouring in the alcove you can just make out

The dead and bemused Rimbaud

Loitering in the darkened joists that hold aloft

The haunted MCG,

& the auroreal sophistry

Of the frick-headed magpie, who teases you for being

Not the last one left alive.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

I See Rollercoaster

[audio:http://cordite.org.au/audio/christmass_rollercoaster.mp3]
I See Rollercoaster (MK-ULTRA Mix) (4:58)

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

Zombie Sex

According to an updated version
of The Kinsey Report,
zombie sex is an anomaly,
but I have twice witnessed it myself:
Once in the parking lot behind
Joe's Bar&Grill,
two zombies dry-humped
in the neon glow of a green beer mug.
The sound was like two giant locusts
rubbing coarse thoraxes together.
I almost expected one of them to ignite.

The second time, I found a zombie
mounting the quadriplegic
who lives next door. I had gone there,
as I do each Tuesday, to read to her.
We were three-quarters through
Pride and Prejudice, and my neighbor,
also named Elizabeth, had been dreaming
of late about Mr. Darcy and life at Pemberley,
only there must have been some mistake.
This was no Mr. Darcy, but a zombie,
thrusting his slick digit between her legs.
Later, as I washed the maggots
from her catheter and skin, we
speculated on the reason
he had not killed her.
I ventured that her immobility
and poor circulation
confused the brute, who perhaps
took her for dead. Elizabeth
fancied another notion, one
involving the first stirrings of love.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

Dead Eroticism and the Zombie Body

Whoever said that zombies reinvented the spirit of sex appeal holds the key to the future of dead eroticism. There is a new wave of sexual lust sweeping modern entertainment, primarily concerned with rot, filth and a hunger of the deepest carnality. At the core of this fascination are two intimate human traits; the inability to look away from the grotesque and an obsession with sex.

Sexuality in a body classified as 'undead' is both a source of revulsion and curiosity. As diseased bodies, zombies disgust our sensibilities and send us screaming into the nearest safe haven. Their appearance alone is enough to incite flight but it is the danger to our own safety that drives us so passionately into retreat. We fear what we cannot see; there is nothing psychologically recognisable as human in a reanimated corpse. Bargaining and begging for mercy have no power in the face of their hunger. They lack complex human behaviours in favour of raw greed. They are not, however, sexless. It is the recognition of this basic attribute that disturbs us the most. Their's are bodies revealed to the deepest core as ultimately sexual. Often unclothed, regularly unskinned and running at the highest possible rate of activity, they epitomise the root of human physiology and exertion. Ironically, at their most active they are the textbook definition of health; able to run great distances without tiring and completely fatigue and injury free. The very image of a zombie is one of post coitus pleasure – sweat coated brow, open mouth, heavy breathing. Such actions in a living body attempt to slow the pulse and breath, returning to a calm state of being. Not so with a zombie. There can be no calm in a creature without a chance of satiation. Food must always be available and if the body is not in the midst of a feeding frenzy, it must desperately roam until more is found. They fill their stomachs in the same way a lover consumes a partner during intercourse. Their hunger translates to desire and the need to perpetuate life inside another‘s body. Whilst living bodies use sex to procreate and extend life, zombies eat flesh to sustain their own high-rate state of being. The end product is remarkably similar: to go on living.

In a society obsessed with youth and health, it seems impossible that bodies of death and decay could even illicit physical curiosity, let alone attraction, but perhaps it is our sexual desire to be inside another human being that leads us to such visceral fascination with a body's insides. Visible gore and entrails on a zombie become celebrations of flesh in its most basic form; cut, skinned, bleeding and completely unadorned or disguised. The beauty of a zombie is the honesty of its physicality. There is no hiding the dead. Their need is singular, unmasked and openly expressed, in much the same way sexual congress is approached by two consenting adults. This forwardness is a method of controlling the world and for the zombie body reanimation is the source of an overwhelming power absent from mortal bodies. Their strength, entirely communicated via brute, physical force, evolves into a visualisation of violent intercourse. Images of victims pinned to the ground, limbs splayed and throat or torso attacked, sexualises the flesh of the dead and enforces lust as a drive behind their action. Each representation of zombie aggression is rich in close body contact, some teetering on the verge of tender. Zombies searching a body for the weakest point of defence may touch a great deal of skin before attacking. Whilst the climax of these touches is violent, the act is one of savouring the flesh before imbibing its life-giving power. With these elements in mind, there is little difference between the lustful taking of meat from a body and the desire to enter one sexually. What better conduit for lust than the hungry zombie body?

What of the source of zombie weakness? If we are to believe the brain is the centre of all our emotional output, damage of this organ would lead to a complete shut-down of desire, drive and passion. Thus the classic method of attack in all zombie films: destroy the brain. However, is it as simple as turning off the power supply? If desire is the driving force behind zombie attacks, perhaps it is not destruction of the brain that kills the undead but the murder of desire. Is it possible to place such a romantic notion atop so ugly a beast? This romanticism may be the only psychological link between the minds of the living and the undead. If both figures share common ground in desire and need, there may be more of the zombie in the living than ever realised. There is great physical mirroring between the two during the zombie point of attack and the living locked in intercourse, suggesting the two are instinctually identical when in the midst of passion. It may be fair to say that what humankind see erotic in zombies are the same elements they recognise in themselves; greed, sex and fascination with the insides of their own bodies.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

Toward a State of Symbiosis

Three zombies–fresh from the soil and wearing
lipsticks of tsetse flies–form a triangle
when they sit with their backs to each other. Place a pitcher
of blood within this space and it is refrigeration.
One zombie cannot hatch an egg
no matter how long it nests in the intestines
of newly gutted cats. An estranged wife,
drunk on bullet holes, has been known to satisfy
several zombies and set the husband free.
The living heart must answer to the undead mouth.
Television snow shares the same sound
as a zombie scuffle for bones and half-digested nachos.
In the air, smog from synthetic brain factories
as two zombies–mirror images of Christ–
sink their teeth in the lifeless body
by the dumpster and begin to call forth Lazarus.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

polliloquy 2

well here i am in the, wars again,
is it true only the dead can help you;
or hurt, their hands, dirty & scratching,
i battle through a martyr myself, a blackwidow too
they say, at least you were spared,
the freezer not like max, the poor fickle bastard
watch your language poll your anger,- imagine most ts,
silent, each, h, dropped.
every th become a f or a v.
you went to earth with love, again unlike some
unlike a lot that do it to themselves
it was the only way,
to kill the cabbage in your head,
i nearly said flower but flowers too romantic.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

Theories of Zombie Lap Swimmers

I

It happened again. One of them grabbed my ankle, dragged me under, and then swam on top of me. I knew not to make a scene. Fighting will only make them more determined to keep you under. Unless you play possum, the next one in the lane will come along and hold you down until you're sucking water through your nostrils.

II

Zombies chop through water like propellers of an out-board motor, but their stroke lacks human finesse. If a zombie whacks you in the face or on the back, yell and scream all you want–the zombie won't notice as long as you're not in its way. These blows, while painful, don't draw blood, since swimming zombies lose their fingernails after their first month of laps.

III

It's not unusual to find stray toes and fingers floating on the water's surface. If there's blood, lifeguards blow their whistles to clear the pool of the still-living. Blood means the digit belonged to a human. The guards come down from their perches to fish out the body parts with nets and dump more chlorine into the pool. No bathers scream, even if a digit is torn from a socket. It's better to lose a finger or toe from an over-zealous zombie's grasp than to lose your life. All the zombies want is to reach the end of the lap lane before you do. Yesterday I saw two big toes, but they were flaky and bloated, no blood. We know zombies cast off stray body parts while they swim. Wikipedia says scientists don't know for sure why the sloughing off occurs. They theorize that there are trace amount of chi still animating the cells, even though the astral body has abandoned the organism. All swimming zombies die an un-death. No one has ever seen a zombie head bobbing along in a lap lane.

III

Many think swimming zombies don't eat, but almost every lap swimmer I know has a friend or relative who has gone missing at the time they were expected home from the pool. Nowadays, people leave the natatorium thirty minutes before closing time–staff members have reported seeing zombies leave the water after the overhead fluorescent lamps are turned off. One lifeguard said they mill about aimlessly in the locker room at night.

IV

In his black and white photo series, ‘Zombie Towel Dance,' Pulitzer Prize winner Raul Bledger captured startling images of zombies with bathing trunks on their heads, waving towels at each other like matadors. My own theory is that swimming laps is the first stage in the un-life cycle of a zombie, a precursor to the more aggressive phase marked by their insatiable hunger for human flesh.    In fact, because of Bledger's photos, I'd say a zombie graduates from the relatively innocuous swimming phase after finding an unwitting, still-living straggler in the locker room. One taste of human blood is all it takes, and then they begin their ceaseless search for the next meal.

V

You might wonder why I continue to swim at the natatorium in spite of the zombies. It's safer than a jogging path or the gym, because at least if a zombie is swimming you know it's not going to eat you. Only walking zombies search for human grizzle. Zombie-free pools can't stay that way for long. Everyone knows zombies love chlorine. It's because of the bacteria-killing properties, the ability to render lifeless and colorless that which was once thriving. Even pools cleaned with triple-osmosis filters attract their fair share of zombies. It's because of the absence of microbes in the water. It's called lack. Zombies can smell the essence of lack. It draws them. One day I'll submit this journal as evidence to the Department of Health and Human Services. If we find a way to keep the zombies swimming, we can incinerate the sloughed body parts until all the residual zombie chi has dried up. The plague will end.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

The Vegetarian Zombie

Covered in corn husks
licking tomato pulp from his lips, he growls.
Even the last of the humans

have to laugh, lowering their crowbars
as he attacks crispers, drinking the black juice from dead fridges.

If there were any farmers left, they might get the shotgun
as the vegetarian zombie rips open the heart
of an artichoke.

The undead salad beast, as sweet as a cabbage moth.
His brothers rake through bodies with their fingernails
black mouths and rabbit eyes, picking lives from their teeth.

He tries to blend in, covered in beetroot blood and chilli seeds
gorging on onion skin, apricot flesh, hands of bananas, ears of corn.

Tongue in mango cheek. His skin smooth like tofu
clear eyes and a bright scowl
not the slightest trace of an iron deficiency.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged , , ,

The Way of Zombies

We weren't supposed to hold the hands of the ones
we ate. Looking into their eyes, also forbidden.

No one asked for names, not once,
not even when the screams reached a crescendo.

Somehow we knew what to do by instinct, the way flies
know to deposit eggs in warm rot and lizards know
to shed dead skin even if it means
rubbing skin against stone, vigorously.

The hunger was enough. The hunger drove every move,
every decision. No one gave instructions or wrote
our obligations inside books. Sometimes we suspected
rules, but no one discussed them. When Cleo

devoured a boy smaller than herself
and snatched the toy boat from his hand,
not one of us ordered her
to leave it.   I turned, just as we were about to ascend

the black hill behind the children's hospital,
and saw our father, kneeling on ground
saturated with excrement and blood.

I watched him take the boy's small hand in his own
and hold it, briefly,
before gnawing pink digits down to bone.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

The Lungs Themselves

You will hear
in the expanding lungs.

Each breath forgets the last
and thus the question

is how to do
in this small room.

There is the desire
to abandon the city.

The people live as birds
tapping on surfaces.

One morning I woke
and stopped for minutes.

There is a sad in speaking:
a crushed castle, sold dog.

The cause in fact is in our
mouth, and in the word

we speak in secret.
A question is what to say

when the whole freaking
comes on down upon

the blockbusting world
and especially when it

doesn't. There is the fear
sometimes of sleep

and the thickness
in the waking head.

The disaster is
it doesn't know this room.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

Some Bad Life

I keep dreaming this is all some bad life.
Local greeting: Hi. Lament: Woe to me.
The eclipse confused us. We didn't know how much time passed
or how to communicate this to anyone else.

 
*
 

You brought out the worms in me.
And I used to have two good arms for waving goodbye.
I wasn't even supposed to be on that fistfight back to Philadelphia.
I was supposed to be Dracula in a real movie.

 
*
 

The first three years aren't separated into months, more like meals.
Possession and marriage are interchangeable.
I am liable to think that this is all Eve's fault.
We're all still here eating the apple, and we really hate apples.

 
*
 

The words brains and more-brains are your limitations.
I'm not as lucky. I can relate.
There have been five pictures left in that camera for months now.
This has nothing to do with severed limbs.

 
*
 

There's no chance for a change in television now.
The smell of rot in this small room is our rightful children.
What an exciting finish to a fulfilling day, a right rented one.
A dulling thud follows me, like this.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

We Took Their Zombies

I was flying over Sydney in a giant zombie.
(it's fun to take zombies
& stay up all night)
Sydney zombies
are white and angry-tongued, but
I am still
the black zombie of trespass on alien waters.
Things looked bad.

Your zombie calls, and you answer it: your
lank zombie, dank zombie,
chafe in its crotch and sores in its hair.
(it's important to be zombie
but not to be
 too cute about it.) Together
we eat
bread & stewed zombie –
It's surprisingly easy to cook a zombie now.
I can iron shirts too.

My zombie lives in a house where nobody has ever died.
To the wind it says, ‘They have eaten me alive.’

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

The Laugh Track of Their Sloppy Fists

[audio:http://cordite.org.au/audio/whelan_laughtrack.mp3]
The Laugh Track of Their Sloppy Fists (1:01)

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

Eat My Secrets

Once we have carried out
our parts of the bargain

my secrets will be
safe, in the dark

vault of your body.
You alone understand

how I've ached
for the slow caress

of digestion, craved
to be held within

another's cells.
You will pack me away

in plastic bags, against
the coming months,

against your own
peculiar hunger.

You will relish me.
What could be sweeter?

I want to be known.
This way

you can taste me
all the way to the bone.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

silverware

knife knife knife

fork spoon fork spoon knife fork

spoon knife fork spoon knife knife

fork spoon spoon spoon spoon spoon peeler

fork spoon knife fork spoon spoon knife fork knife knife knife

fork spoon knife spoon fork spoon fork spoon fork mallet

fork spoon knife spoon fork spoon knife fork fork knife

knife fork fork spoon spoon fork fork knife fork spoon spoon

spoon spoon spoon spoon knife fork spoon spoon

flesh flesh flesh spoon spoon fork knife

knife spoon fork fork spoon spoon fork spoon

fork fork knife knife fork fork spoon

fork fork fork

flesh flesh bloody

flesh flesh

knife fork

knife fork

spoon

spoon

spoon

flesh

flesh

flesh

flesh

flesh

flesh

fuck

knife

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

Missing Girl, 1986

The zombie has a panic attack
in the middle of her feeding frenzy
and all of a sudden she is vomiting up
blood and body parts, the partially digest
arms of a newborn, the hindquarters
of a jack rabbit, torso of a Barbie doll.

Her first instinct is to shove
the contents back down her throat,
but waves of nausea overtake,
and she is shaking too hard to swallow.

She has visions of a little girl clutching a pink
dinosaur, Lucy, both of them
buried alive behind the mobile home
by a man with bloodshot eyes
and his zipper all the way down,
saying, “Touch it. Go on now. Touch it.”

She remembers inside the grave
and the way she hurt down there
where he had kept poking her.
She had promised Lucy
if they made it out alive,
she would find him and eat him
whole. Guts and all.

The next thing she remembers:
a swarm of flies entering the grave
and depositing eggs inside her moist cavities.
How afterwards, her whole body hummed.
Later, upon hatching, the noise inside her skin
woke her up. She would never sleep again.

Sometimes now, the hunger is insatiable,
the need stronger than a warning.
Even as her muscles quake, and panic
tightens her jaw, a small child cries
in an upstairs room, and she moves towards it, famished.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged

How She Changed Her Diet

Two weeks now since she stopped going to work.
The phone gleams, silent as spilled blood. Skeletal remains
around the sofa indicate that she has run out
of children. Hunger is in constant motion – dogs outside
fighting each other, trees under attack from birds,
houses on fire. She peels the skin off her arms
and eats. Underneath she is decomposed, a walkway
for larvae and houseflies. Her memory is a constant drizzle,
a devouring of every face she comes across
until they resemble her first meal – the cab driver
who took her home. Alone, she reads books
again and again to remember the taste of living brains.
She holds on to a cloven copy of Ulysses
and chews her fingers until her tongue – torn taste
buds and gangrene – curls like a fetus around the bone.

Posted in 39: ZOMBIE 2.0 | Tagged