I like many artists am unappreciated in my own time, much like Lovecraft or The Beatles, unloved and unheard of until death.
I will continue to plough my lone furrow, writing some of the most powerful poetry this earth and possibly universe has, and probably will ever see.
Today I’ve decided to write about a topic many of us are currently concerned about, the likely end of the world caused by zombies.
I personally hope for shufflers and not runners as I refuse to break into anything other than a slow jog to avoid those undead fuckers!
This is my poem I hope you enjoy, I may make this a series if I get more than 1 like for it, proving once more that there is a massive audience for my work and it’s not just the ramblings of a barely functioning insomniac.
Begins
The night is long and tired I lay, in bed as the hours unwind until day
I drift into sleep but downstairs a sound, awakens me quickly I jump to the ground
The tiredness leaves me I stand there in fear, the noise getting louder the footsteps are near.
I grab for a t-shirt as I’m standing there nude, I don’t want the intruder to think that I’m rude!
No time for the shirt I throw it aside, there in the doorway is Mr. McBride
His lips are not there, not part of his face, his arms are outstretched I grab for my mace
It’s heavy and metal I swing it, ‘you’re dead!’, I exclaim as it connects with the top of his head
His lips were not there and now not his head, splattered on my duvet that lays on my bed
His body it slumps and falls to the floor, a noise from outside now, a fist on the door
I open my curtains I gaze out in shock, hordes of the bastards are running amok.
I’m trapped in my house I know this is it, my buttocks have parted I think I just shit!
The zombies are swarming, my pants they are soiled, any hopes of escape are undoubtedly foiled.
The windows crash in, the front door it breaks, they swarm up the stairs, I’m awaiting my fate...
To be continued......
Yet again I’ve spoiled a masterpiece by writing about a soiling, making it four poems in a row where my underwear is ruined. In the next part of this story I hope my initial fear has passed and my bowels remain intact.
I know I say this after every entry but if you would like a custom poem about any subject I will gladly write one free of charge, maybe you need a chant to ward off a possessed child’s toy or a incantation to smite a dreaded foe I will happily oblige.