ZombiePhD

a ZOMBIE is a preternaturally ANIMATED undead
CORPSE, often to be found CRAWLING with MAGGOTS.

this particular zombie (phd) has an unwholesome
interest in BRAAAINSSS!!!!!!!!

it also wrote a poem, with or without apologies
to
ts eliot:

THE SCUL SONG OF J ZOMBIE PHD



let us go then, you and me

where the midnight is spread out across the 

street

like a patient lover on silk sheets

let us go beneath the city sky

where laugh and cry

the restless homeless by the package store

the dressed-up yuppies hanging at the bar

they start and stare

and ask, \"from where...?\"

o do not wait to chatter with them

let us go upon our mission



at the fort the pilots come and go

talking of campagnolo



the sticky grease that coats the links of chain

the blackened grease that coats gear-teeth and 

chain

licked out onto fingers, faces, clothes

lingered like street-oil on storm-drains

saw iridescence green and silver-grey

and seeing that it was a saturnight

slipped out of the house, and sped away



you ask is this worth it? yes, i feel

the preflight paranoia, loose bolt and cracking 

weld

insufficient plasma, cockpits by duct-tape held

to be in flight inside the swerving wild

pack of pilots, to wear a manic smile

and spin the universe beneath my wheels

and roll beyond the need for asking questions

to call out \"port!\" or \"starboard!\", 

\"asteroid!\"

above the songs of rubber, asphalt, steel

if one, zombie, human, droid

can say, \"yes, this

is everything and all,

this is what i came for, after all.\"



this is just my first year, after all

to know the launch- and landing-pads as home

to measure saturnights in light-years flown

and helpless watch some several pilots fall

and help some maggots pilot on their own

but how am i to pwn?



at the fort the pilots come and go

talking of campagnolo



for i am not an iron cog, nor was meant to be

am but a first-year pilot, that might do

to holler \"incoming!\", high-five a hand or two

plug in the compressor, hold a tool

clueless and yet glad to be of use

impolitic and ridiculous

full of good intentions, but a bit obtuse

at any time less mythic than fictitious

not so much superhero as the fool.



i grow old, i grow old

i hit the coaster brake and still i rolled



shall i braid my hair in sevens? dare i eat a

nectarine?

i shall wear a purple helmet with a stripe of

lurid green.

i have heard the pilots sing and hoot and scream

-- but still i think they mostly laugh at me.



we\'d all seen scul riding, iridescent on the 

streets

impossible geometries, too long or short or tall

the blasting funk, the spinning disco ball



we have lingered on the sidewalks for too long

blinded as the blink and beat swept by

til we mount and push the pedals, and we fly.					
									

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