Poem #6

There's a place in the center of town
Where all the zombies gather
To gnaw on old, dry chicken
And whisper amongst themselves
About the acquisition of brain matter

And perform bonding rituals
Of ancient sailors
In ancient manifold ships
Of the exchange of paper
For jeans that squeeze their hips

Where the women are tall, white, and plaster
Where the men walk in cloth shoes across floors of alabaster
I've been to that place and met those people
The stinking, rotting flesh
Gathered under a glass steeple

And there's a place within that place
Where the people are taught to be poor
And the teachers shout lessons
About forgotten lore
Of screeching, screaming politicians
Living in linoleum houses

And every morning when he shoots up
He spits his euphoric cemented teeth
Into a little cup
And screams outside of loose women and cheap booze
And looks quickly around his house for things he's afraid to lose

I've met that man and been to that plastic castle
He's old
And his shirt is covered in gold
And he walks with a limp with a cane in his hand
And uses his eight legs just to stand
And repeats the world's longest sentence
Over and over in his head

And his castle hanging high in the sky
The last fortress where he wills urely die
It smells
And it rocks
when a bird lands on the turret
And when the sun shines through the tinted walls
The furniture turns to dust
And cockroaches crawl up the walls

And the zombies scream out truths of ancient philosophers
And shut their ears and speak in history lessons
Taught in the center of the building
Where their consciousness was implanted
Where their minds were slanted
And together they all chanted

Havin' an affair with an old Biltmore
She's old
She's covered in mold
And her words come out so bold
When she holds out a hand
And asks for their parents' pieces of gold

Standin' on the sidewalks
Smoking dandilions in leather pipes
Holding up their red-and-white signs
Make believin' they're all the ninety-nine