zOMBIEyoRk

AND WAS

BORN I sit here and wonder what I am waiting for, perhaps a glimpse of a dream, this nightmare awakened---

LIKE SITTING IN THE BACK OF BOXES FOR CHAIRS

OF BUS STATIONS--- This articulation, this wired and tired babbling of psycho gizmo talk. I rap my fingers for being stiff and unwilling to break even as I pound my fist against glasses, walls, dashboards, these hearts---

I’m running on half a battery of acid and bile and this bitterness over imagined people. I am waiting for Eleanor Rigby: It is this zombie who visits my dreams. Last night it was inside me. I am waiting in the back of an empty waiting.

HELLO

MISTRESS I reply to the seminal flirt, and I wonder how long it could stay faithful to vows. I am thrumming, waiting, ticking: SPEAK

OF CLUBS AND PROSTITUTES ARE NOW KNOWN AS PUBLIC WOMEN---

I

Like sitting in the back of boxy buses, waiting for the clock to tick the bundy tock. I am waiting for the nine’s clock. I listen to old songs and I wait for the right time, just the right time to stand up and move, stand and move and I wait, waiting, wait. I am sitting up and I’m asleep. I’m still asleep and I am duck

AT 11:32, SEE

A SLUT

FOR LOVE LEAN TOWARDS ANOTHER ARM I wonder why

there is a twinge: this manic tapping of the heart, beating and beating the breath. I wonder about the dream and what it means to the sex between: IT WAS BORN

A 5’9” FETUS

UNDER A DESK ON A LUNCH BREAK It is curled,

It says, just like that so that no one could see it---

----especially the---

----sshhh, don’t-make-a-sound----

---and that it is very warm---

---like in the monster’s mother’s womb it could never remember--- IT IS THE QUESTION

ON THE SEX OF DREAMS THAT BAFFLE THE BREATHS OF REALITY Like the chair

in the corner of this room. I wait for that face I do not look at to return. It is a----‘s

and I wonder about this puzzling. Such confusion in the flow of words to be captured, I tap blindly and unthinking. It is as if I am in a spiral of circles and I am spinning. I look at the book that is a list of the words of words. In a blank floating floor, strobe lights, there is the superstar that used to make me sad---- the sonic of the youth of decades, what is constant, love, that muck this curse. I had missed the tapping of this affliction…

I was afraid, last night, that you were losing me. You---

1

2

3- N-FINITY

This half I ate and vomit and I serenade. The distance is a blinking cursor waiting to fill the space with what could shorten this silence with just words…

AND ALL THE WORDS ARE

SENSELESS

It is as if the blood is calling me to play and dance the macabre: a zombie for a lover. Perhaps it is the sparkle of a puzzle and there was no love in the dream but just the pulse of impulse. The zombie can easily become infatuated and obsessed. I am building another reality and I spin in prisons as I marvel at patience that graces the turning of years. I looked at our frozen faces from ten years ago, counting backwards and more--- how what was close has become distant with time.

ZOMBIE OF

SEX was in the middle of a kiss that was hard and full of tongue, sneaked. The panic and rush, the Zombie found itself wet and naked under cloth, there, then, just slipping inside, seeing a huge head and heat.

What does it mean?

Psycho 1: You want to have sex

Psycho 2: Your unconscious is telling you that you want to have sex

Psycho 3: You hate the fucker

Psycho 4: You hate that sex

DOES ZOMBIE SEX this weirdness, it says,

And you just see and know what is weird and fucked up. And you like it how it fascinates. I am waiting in a room that feels emptier as each word comes and comes leaving the page unreplete but stinging from not knowing the hands of this loneliness. Whose nails are lingering over this untouched skin. Whose body was it really that had wanted to mate with this corpse. This body has become sleepless and listless--- a ghost becoming its patience.

OR IS IT THE GAME THE WHORES OF TRAFFIC

PLAY--- the minutes of waiting and blinking cursors--- the clock of this is real; it is waiting. I am inside my desiring and I am murdering it in the clinic that is my words, this logic of the probable being made impossible, an aborted fetus of fucks. The laugh revolts: to wonder why a corpse wants to make love to a zombie. Ah, to be human.

AND IT CAN’T STAY

To stay a crippling blow, this blow of woo and whoa, a woe to count these one, two, three unto the maker of pupils. It is the language, it says, we do not speak the same. Yes, yes, to still wonder what a lepton is. And what of those letter n particles that make up energy from the sun, the stuff of the stuff of the universal stuff. The letter n particle is the bone and marrow of the bone marrow. Oh harrow, what has come to us--- the satellite Obstacle 1 and behind it, believed to be lost is Obstacle 2.

NOW THIS PRISON

Where there are corners where ghosts and corpses could hide with just shades or darkened eyes.