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Silence Exile and Crumpets
 
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Monday, February 7th, 2011

Time Event
12:14a
Zombie6

The dead are always at it. Like to kill
and tear and eat. But even more than those
They like to fuck. The moment that you close
huge oven doors on them, be sure they will

be screwing as they burn. Each black charred bone
is wrapped around another, charcoaled tongue
thrust into burned lips. They can fuck so long
because they do not breathe. You hear them moan

out in the night. It's not to terrify.
It's not all about you. They make the beast
with two backs. Or with five. Say two at least.
And when they catch and eat you, as you die

the ones whose teeth you feel don't lead the pack.
He's busy with three dead blondes round the back.
10:31a
People forget the witty things you said
Your books will be remaindered by and bye
Your hair won't go on growing when you're dead.

Your heavy coffin will be lined with lead
The mourners sip cold tea. Your girl will cry,
People forget the witty things you said.

But soon she'll put off black and put on red
She'll talk of you sometimes, and maybe sigh.
Your hair won't go on growing when you're dead.

She'll take another lover to her bed
Who'll see her weep sometimes and not know why
People forget the witty things you said

You'll be remembered by the portrait head
she draws. She always had an artist's eye.
Your hair won't go on growing when you're dead

Your art's remembered since it's hers it fed
She'll think of you when it's her turn to die
People forget the witty things you said
Your hair won't go on growing when you're dead.
4:38p
They lived for art and love and died quite young
He painted abstracts and she tried to dance
A friend wrote all about them in a song.

Torn splattered pictures that did not belong
to any school – some thought them an advance
They lived for art and love and died quite young

She moved in beauty but her steps were wrong.
No choreographer would take the chance
A friend wrote all about them in a song

In passing, he wrote poems that are among
the best we have – you'd know them at a glance
They lived for art and love and died quite young

Her witty memoirs some think over-long
but value for their air of sad romance
A friend wrote all about them in a song

Their work has lived. Their lives did not belong
among us. And their memory enchants.
They lived for art and love and died quite young
A friend wrote all about them in a song.
10:24p
Zombie7
The blank expressions, dull eyes, of each face
May lead you to believe they have no soul,
whereas their death and rebirth made them whole
united corpse and spirit in one place.

Their bodies punish sinners, free them too
to see the living God and serve His will.
It's Him who pulls them from the grave to kill
to tear apart, and bite, and gnaw, and chew.

His servants work their fingers to the bone.
Killing the clock around. It's how they pray
watching the movements of His face each day
He whispers that he knows them for His own.

And we pray too – we hope they'll pass us by
that only unbelieving sinners die.

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