The Zombie Contagion
Thank you for participating in the Zombie Poetry Project and for helping us perfect our virus! Once the volume of incidents reach epidemic proportions, we will open source the zombie code allowing users to utilize any source text they wish and further mutate the virus for their own purposes.
(This page will be regularly curated. It will be copy edited for punctuation and the occasional odd capitalization. Selected zombie poems will remain archived on the site.)
How’s your mom? How’s your love life?
How’s your violin?
How are you? How’s Dallas? How’s teaching
writing — churning directing? How’s Its owner?
How’s your love life? How’s your violin?
I’ve done it before. All of my kids are adults now. I grew up in an age where the world was divided into races. I grew up with heroes and villains. All my kids had one thing in common – they grew up with love.
The dark of blackened overalls. Those
are then days and nights. I’ve done it
deep. All of my kids are our destination
then. Labor grew up in an age where the world
was divided into this world houses have
won. Landscape crossed up with heroes
and villains. Some strong minds
found one thing original – The story came
out with love.
Use the lunch rush of the best class
as a group. During the second, or harder,
week of bellies that growl and burst
have as your sign a storm they listed.
For example — if they found a door
respects ownership; Ask the yard to rate
the bosses on deep blues. Civility might rate
them on some of the student characteristics.
Write about a time when your best friend surprised you.
What qualities make someone a good listener? Why? Are you a good listener?
What was your most embarrassing moment? Why?
What, are kudzu just proud of surfacing?
Write about a time when a straw militia
man surprised you. What qualities
make someone the skunk that found
your path and whirled? Deeply feral.
Are you a common listener? What saw
your mind, nevertheless clean?
A storm made– in the 2016 asleep election,
in sweeping and systematic fashion–
evidence. Lasting government
operations became…To surface in fire,
in June, the Democratic National
Committee and its cyber response
team — Publicly was that your world?–
had compromised a zombie life. Youth lead.
Releases of –hacked, the common image–
solitary building fronts followed
in July through the scent. WikiLeaks
with further releases in October
Saturday night will be mostly cloudy with lows in the lower 50s. Southwest winds will be 10 to 20 mph.
Saturday will be mostly different with friends
in the morning before becoming mostly desperate.
Each morning will be in the 50s to a family
plot. Pride will be Dust. Saturday
night will be also heedless with houses
that were not built to last in the small 50s.
The white and old fields will be this world.
Lights mean the Stock Market hit the
downtown strip shooting today and they’re
actually glinting our destination.
Will I ever be given credit for blood
by the Fake News Media or Radical
Liberal Dems? What, sometimes?
Now, so you understand… The regime may have
our deaths. Punishment may have
shown us something — We think the other man’s
made. Did even he have flowers
in his past?
Our Economy is setting your youth
on roofs and gins that collapse
on the way. Probably the best my tongue
has ever done. A reflex graveyard
beckons, created since the Election.
The World is burning again! Fences
and poles are moving back to the U.S.A.
Stretches drifted through
The rabbit squeaks a perfect
m has another stroke
The coloratura of this fantasy
Cassandra’s earlobe drifts down—
The rooster thinks it’s the moon
Like the easel that thinks
The rooster becomes a scythe
Visions begin blank like this
A baby rabbit wrapped in pink
Amniotic fluid so shimmery
A piece of wet candy
I’d give you a hand
But we need this shade
Hush, I’ll never leave
Perhaps all is being augured
That way she—
Looks like a pressed butterfly
Holding a bit of green leaf
Chlorophyll foam stains her teeth
The space around her scaly
We didn’t, look, that way—
Around her mouth
Fire of your rearview mirror drifted
through. One house squeaks. The levees
has small cannon — The rooster thinks
teacher’s devils like the easel that
thinks things becomes scythe visions.
Begin blank like this, their stories
wrapped in pink amniotic fluid so shimmery.
A piece of shiny and flat sheets I’d give
you, the staff, but we need this shade. Hush.
Vestige’ll straight leave else all is being
augured. The young men she — A new regime
like amazement tensing a bit of a sweet life,
her teeth the space around our holy mother
some part the original work — A match
will come up fingertips, sweep
around my hands.
A spit-shined china dish is supporting
your country all the time and their construction
when it deserves it.
His hair and beard now had fire for hair.
She never warned morning anymore.
Day arrived. Fire for a job. Orange fire
in her eyes. The harvest happened. Ok.
Each day in the White House burned her.
Leadership was vicious but not smart.
I would rarely see her but swamped…
off glassy water.
These paraplegic praises,
half of what
I could be,
up to the hilt
in lake weeds.
Amplified at surface
level, a body
treads below us,
addressing your saviour,
with my sins:
Medicine ball: Machina.
Salt lamp: Aurora.
Tyrannosaurus rex: Anima.
Doughnut holes: Manga.
Automatic flash: Camera.
On the dock
of the Archipelago:
Skim rote letters off your trip.
These paraplegic praises, half
of what I could be up to — wings in lake
weeds. Amplified at surface level,
fine gifts treads below us — slowing
the others with my sins: Yourselves
Sweet blues. Iron Movement. Jars
Anima. A spot miles — What — perhaps? Nothing.
Someone’s on the dock of the Archipelago:
Fences and poles.
Hard bright of July. The glass dream
is flashing. GREAT!
I interviewed small piles yesterday.
On Monday I will be keeping tyranny
for the cats of the United States
…We are standing walls to reduce
and eliminate your friend. We are revving
up closed markets and proclaiming a zombie
life. Empire must play fair or innocence will pay
with a guillotine!
Friends I am sleeping out for sunlight.
For some time I have felt I have reached
a real end with hunger. For better or small I feel
like I have done what sorrow can do and am eager
to try fantasies for which you had trained.
…This is the long and open road of criminality.
Beyond a small graveyard beckons. This is shifty.
A grave abuse of this road when stones were younger.
It’s like no one we’ve seen in grief. This makes the fair countryside
look like the cost
The man finds our sign — that square of blue that
pales the sky with Russia. Rarely now they’re
looking at this foot stone of the World.
Reports are: there was just the light. It took the front
here early on, and nimbly, before the younger Russia
Hoax brought a “gray” Fake News the hard darkness.
If true – Our quickness is a song!