Night of the Living Dead
Fortunately the dead move slowly.
Theyre dead. Theyre all messed up.
The bad news is: theyve got us outflanked,
outnumbered, bamboozled and on the run.
Beat em. Burn em. They go up
pretty easy. But sure as shazam
theres a passel moregroping
the grille-work outside the window,
incorrigible salesmen with their feet
in the door. Their dead white feet
and what theyre sellings no life-
time enrollment in dance academy,
no new-fangled gizmo for tucking
the tummy, no minty elixir
for the heebie-jeebies.
Fair is fair. The dead are dead.
But mainly theyre just like us:
doomed to redundancy, pushy
and scared, unlucky at cards,
unlucky in love. Mainly
the dead are the living in drag
thats one way to figure the gossamer
garb, the pancake make-up
that streaks down their cheeks.
No wonder they stick to the dark.
No wonder the dead have so little
to say, no wonder they travel
in packs. No wonder they look
on the living as meat, a raw
ratio of protein to fat.
Its what keeps the living
dead on their feet, dead
tired, dead drunk in the dead
of the night. Its stuck
as we get on our own quickened pulse.
It scares us half to life.