Toward a State of Symbiosis

By | 1 April 2010

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.

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