If poets continue to circulate their work after death what does an undead poet look and sound like?
Bring your brains
to the zombies
bring your flesh
to the wolves
fight the undead
finish their reign
give chills to the air
and remember human beings
can dream up monsters
with one imaginative thought or stare.
The circus mirrors gives her the shivers
Her lips begin to quiver
She hates clowns
and her frown
turns into bestial snarl.
her cheeks flash red
all she can think of is blood instead
Which she wants to eat
as her hairs stand on end
and are caught by electric instincts
her teeth become sharp and canine
and eyes shine an unnatural shade
as her body begins to rearrange
her spine tingles
her coccyx sprouting out of behind
A now wagging tail
Her feet bursting through her dainty shoes
her arms begin to flail
she is in shock but somehow it feels right
those clowns will get it
they will not live to regret it
growling at the mirror at her reflection
her skirt tearing at the seams
full moon screams turning into growls
then a howl
As her body is exposed
this is what the crystal ball
and fortune teller said
“when the moon becomes blood red
you will see what you are in the distorted mirrors and be fed”
As she smashes the mirror
drool dripping from her tongue and teeth
the werewolf released
from her human cage
to rage against those foolish clowns.
The radio booms on speakers
it’s enough to wake the dead
zombies re attach their heads
ghosts clammer for attention.
What’s this dissenting dismal story
breaking from the ordinary
it must be the radio news.
This towns a ghost town and we are out of sight
dead ravens take flight
like they have been reanimated by Edgar Allen Poe
the word nevermore repeated.
Disco lights dance in the dusty ghostly radio station studio
the presenter moves his skeletal hand
and slides the controls to the peak setting.
his voice a long forgotten recording
playing jingles old songs and adverts
for a town where no one is around…
Rain falling on the decomposing leaves
cold autumn air breathed in warm lungs
the wind blows muttering ghost stories
into our ears.
Pumpkins carved into wickedly twisted smiles
we dress up for Halloween discos and parties with style
gathering sweets as we go
while the full moon glows
Bonfires built as we wait for the 5th of November
when fireworks will explode and sparkle in the night sky
we remember the gun powder plot
as we toast marshmallows on the bonfire.
You can’t see me
hear me breathing
Light flickers, its deceiving.
I sit in the corner of the room
this is where I live, my tomb
see it all ended years ago
though I haven’t got the courage to leave
Sometimes the inhabitants of this house
can see me in the corner of their eye
But not every dead person can just die
I can’t leave my daughters here alone
So I live on a half painted shadow in a ghostly home.