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.)
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 a 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!
Nothings are asleep; graveyard
in a dream
has flown away
amid the shore
while i can not
all that we see
Sheets in their stories have flown.
Now I stand amid the shore. I weep
while I cannot save all that we see.
The FitnessGram ™ Pacer Test is a patrol.
Not. The metal will begin in 30 seconds.
Long blues. Its shiny finger starts
back but gets slow each minute after you hear
Trigonal planar sp2 (s+p+p
Tetrahedral sp3 (s+p+p+p)
Square planar dsp2 (d+s+p+p)
Trigonal bipyramidal dsp3 (d+s+p+p+p)
Octahedral d2sp3 (d+d+s+p+p+p)
A hand ( Bottles+ p ) trigonal worth sp2 ( s+
the light+ p safe sp3 ( your path+ pixel+ p+ p)
golden younger dsp2 ( Iron+ African-American news
What’s easy+ p ) trigonal bipyramidal dsp3
( Front+ the day+ p+ their flocks+ the one door
that grates and swings ) octahedral d2sp3
( d+ Family+ p+ The dust+ p )
the old man knew he was dead
the shark lay quietly
the old man could hear
the old man watched him
he did not look like the FISH anymore
I have seen BIG ONES.
Our quickness had –white as a speedboat–
pleased — then vestige did. He was
dead, the shark seemed, quietly. The hot man
could hear the easy man was him. He did
back look like the story low. I have
seen a book dream.