Friday, September 30, 2011

Intrigued by a new popular phenomenon,
I guess it could be described as apocalyptic porn.
Irradiated wastelands, zombies, infected, and mutants
---People love that shit, but I think many don't know why.
To many it's a game of how long they could live.
For the more intellectual it's a chance to examine Hobbes,
Or maybe live like Thoreau at a wasted Walden,
But for some maybe it's a message:
Love what still exists.

Those tenacious survivors who made it,
Congratulations, but what do you want?
The sting of legs ceasing to run?
The beat of your heart ceasing to pound
As funeral drums for the songs of society no more.
Or maybe their wants are pragmatic;
They want to try again scratching out a plot of land,
Maybe it's a want to feel safe in their neighbours
(The other ones who make it),
All so they get a second chance
To feel connected with the earth that now rejects them,
Now a scorned lover with no flowers.

Everyone want's to see a zombie walk
And in a way want to stagger alongside it.
Those who are wishing misanthropic,
Will gladly watch the world burning
Egging on the monsters.
Luckily kids, Halloween is right around the corner.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

The Moon's Calling It a Night

Living a half-submerged existence,
A tide pool organism I am.
Taken away from my source,
I gasp for air at the Moonset.
Exposed to some sunrise silhouette,
Prancing on a family vacation.
She nagged her parents to pullover
So she could feel sand between her toes.
So she could greet the waves
And wake from passing boats.

Uncovering a cove behind brush,
Find our nook away from anglers' hooks
---She'll see our contented lives
Behind a carapace where we wear our face.
She shan't be squeamish to see the smile past my shell.
And when, or if, she does, she'll sigh with delight.
You wont find my flesh priced by weight but
You may still taste my sweetness.
A little bit more honey for your pot.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Hay Fever and Hard Cider

I can't help but start gagging
Gawking between my bite marks.
Seeing a worm segmented, beside itself,
Body cleaved into the shape of a smile,
Dying, it calls out, "Hah. Gotcha fucker."
That's one bad apple.

You'd think things be in season,
Everything be'd ripe but it's rotten.
Fruit once fresh now among bugs and dirt,
It's being consumed by a new customer
Shoplifting from the source.
Designed for us, but claimed by the creator
--Orchard economics are pretty fickle.

It's not just the rot and horseshit the flies swarm for.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

The men of the world
They hate their mothers
They hate their sisters
Some claim
It's in the name of love,
But it's blatant
There is loathing in their core.
Lashing out with the whips
They were given on their birthday,
Their mark is made.
And when they're through,
Their women are adorned
With veils to cover all
Their bruises and gashes.
At the end of the day
The boys sit down for dinner
And say,

"Look Ma. Look how clean my hands are."