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.

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.

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.

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."

Too many times stumbling in
The dark, when so many slumber.
Brushing corners to scratch reality;
Bug bites indicate my waking state.

Again, I find sleep as many stir.
Cyclic listlessness in my bed.
Dreams begin to blur consciousness,
Slurring events, stoking psychosis.

I explore with newly found lucidity,
Clarity largely absent in life.
Direction taken with ease,
I'm never lost for too long.

I keep a beat in my heart
And a song in my breath.
Harmonizing with the world,
We dance with a spring our step.

The audience are just performers waiting
For their set, and music not yet composed.
They'll all take the stage someday,
With fears of jeers silenced in their minds.

For we all sing in our cages,
Even though we may never take flight.
Our wings may be clipped,
But can the same be said of our spirit?

With love we attack each note.
And poor intonation is taken with grace.
And when the beat ceases
Let our requiem sustain.

I run at these walls
With my head bent down
My neck braced for impact
I could stand to loose a few inches
A short stature helps for hiding,
Ducking down, dodging daggers stared.
No bruises or burns from breath cased in fire.
I'm keeping my moisture to lubricate this soul.

Either: I spit words silently not to be noticed,
Or I scream and shout til I entertain an empty room.
In that vacant space, I will make noise until the ghosts kill
themselves all over again. Finally it'll be me and my thoughts
My own entertainment makings that can't ever be bought.

I'll carry myself on my own shoulders if I have to
But don't tell me I never warned you that I wobble
Walking on my hands, or swear with every new blister.
But when I do it, and I'll be strong enough to do it,
Open wide for a foot in your mouth.

Well darlin' ain't that a kick in the teeth.