February 5th, 2011


(no subject)


The army comes in tanks and jeeps. You wave
then duck as bullets whizz close to your head.
You cheer – they mow down acres of undead.
Then learn it isn't you they've come to save.

Their bodies armoured, goggles on their eyes
You can't tell where they look, or if they smile
You sense they plan to be here for a while
They bring in trailers. Men in suits and ties

arrive by car, seem to be in command.
They catch your neighbour's children in a net
Look at them briefly. Club them. You forget
to stay down. And they shoot you out of hand.

The last thing that you hear is someone shout
'Let God sort live and undead vermin out!'

(no subject)


You chop its head off. Takes you seven tries
to cut through gullet, vocal chords and spine.
It groans and growls. Perhaps this is a sign
that it is conscious, even though its eyes

are bloody, blank. The head will try to bite
as it rolls on the ground. Will break a tooth
chewing at stones and soil. You see the truth
but hide from what you know. These creatures might

in their dead way be more alive than you.
The fingers you cut off swinging your knife-
each one of them has its own wriggling life.
Cut off its ear- that will start creeping too.

Blast them to bits- see how each bit behaves.
The chunks will fight to stay out of their graves.