Rachel (VividCurve on Twitter) posted this dystopian epic on UndeadPoets last night (I think the crew in this poem followed the Boys Scouts’s motto of, “Be Prepared”), and as such has now joined the ranks of the Undead Poets as a Charter Member. Velcome!
We’re counting on the zombie invasion.
We’ve planned out every detail but the sheer brute will we’ll need to keep pounding away and swinging away for
solid miles of re-killing,
swinging, running and jumping, following lost leaders with plans in their panic,
desperation of empty earth,
miles of solid killing.
Trees. Silos. Zombie birds of prey
raining blood. Do they still eat only dead things, now that they, too, are gone?
Gone but not forgotten. We wish we
could forget, we wish you were gone.
Man, if I had a nickel for every head I’ve bashed in…
We’re done here. Time to move on. Grab the gas, the food, the liquor.
Not for heavy drinking. We’re not stupid.
Just a short for courage every time we have to lift the gun,
(the bat the pipe the pole the stick the shovel)
Re-populating the earth is our biggest joke.
It’s still plenty inhabited.
We’re the raiders, the aliens, seeking firma on what we thought
was our terra. Because how can we win?
How can we kill masses, millions,
every one of them a person? Even if we were all up to bat swinging every second we couldn’t do it.
We will do it until we die. Then die again. Do they
die again on their own?
They must. They were once human, how can they not still be people?
How can they not still think, dream, fuck, dance?
As a species, they do not make sense.
Where lies their predatory edge for survival, except in overwhelming numbers? How is there
animation without breath, thought, heartbeat?
How is there instinct without a brain of one’s own?
Alien life, life as we don’t know it.
We’ve switched planets but it was an accident, a mistake, we swear.
There’s more mist now, higher grasses, blockages on the roadways.
So we bring a chainsaw
when we load up the car.
We can’t stay here anymore.
We can’t keep killing people we already know and the scavenging is too scarce out here in the country.
Maybe we should head for the city, tempting those shining, undead teeth in the glutted billions.
Our team is ragged, is really alive.
Two of us sit crouched in the trunk, back door lifted halfway.
The boys in seats clutch supplies,
ropes and hammers and saws, food and
gallon jugs, gasoline and vodka and
chocolate and coats and laptops and
all the first-aid kits and antibiotics
we could find, as if it would make a difference if one of us even got barely scraped by one gleaming tooth of that horde.
We have a driver and a man sitting shotgun, fer real. He got it because
he called it, grabbed it, cocked it.
The only break in tension is action; roadblocks by long-dead farmers, huddled moaning masses off in the distance. Abandoned, beeping cruisers and trucks and overturned ambulances coated inside and out in brown blood, doors creaking open in the windy mist.
I had never before turned my imagination to the macabre, but now corners scare me.
The edges of darkness scare me. I’ve made my peace with Death, but Un-Death, that bastard,
chuckles at my every effort from his deck-chair, working on his tan, marshaling his armies to move
against us with a gesture from his cocktail.
Death is our ally! Who could ever have guessed? He sends us his implements, his implements, and we bow to him and kill and kill and kill,
solid miles of killing.
We can never resist the temptation of a town, searching for original life or real dead, proof it’s ending.
Our vacation from reality can end. But we never find—
just miles of solid killing,
then mobile, rabbiting away from the scene.
Killing strangers is just as hard. Maybe I met you on the internet says something as I bash your face in, maybe you’re a friend’s mother, aunt, cousin as my shovel makes your necklace explode away from your body, head hanging mostly away, a jaunty angle parallel to the ground. Maybe you grew cucumbers I ate, printed my paper, distributed my cornchips and textbooks. Maybe I’ll slam that steel into your face again, left ear to right ear, off and away.
Make for the city. Make it there. Find convenient parking. Choose the tallest building, grab the
supplies, the weapons, the chocolate,
the change for vending machines.
This is too real to pretend it’s not happening anymore.
They said it couldn’t happen, they laughed at us for planning it all over late nights and bubbling water,
they laughed at us and then we killed them after they were dead.
Solid miles of killing
grinning faces on rotting bodies.
Generation x, y, Z knows they were all wrong.
Magic exists, they walk again. If only we can hold out for another thousand years
we will walk in the sky at will.
Rachel is now entitled to display the coveted UDPS Charter Member logo on her site, etc., and has Author rights to post verse and images to her heart’s content on the UDPS site! Only Three more coveted Charter Member spots are available. After that, we will still accept (Undead)Poets, but we will have met our (Undead)Lucky 13 Charter Members! There is still time, so “joooiiinnn usss”!