Monday, February 7, 2011

Poems - Zombie Series

L. Paul Fobert

January 29, 2011


It has begun. The apocalypse, walking dead style.

George A. Romero and Thriller. Examples worthwhile

of our gut-wrenching impending doom.

Holding a gun, I stare in the room.

It is oh, so messy

As it feeds on Jessie.

Night of the Living Dead and Michael Jackson

pop culture icons with this kind of action.

The reincarnated corpse looks up from its meal

intent to gouge. I came along, a better deal.

Its not fast.

What a blast.

Pandemic? Epidemic? Who would know?

A solitary man. Guy named Joe Blow.

He’s dead now. The gun in my hand,

fires at the puppet. Stunned, I stand,

horror turns to shock,

My mind is a lock.

Halloween costumes were fun.

This was all said, all but done,

when the problem began

in the town of No Man.

Years ago that was

now the world’s on pause.

There’s another one.

Where is all the fun?

He’s even more dimwitted

than others I outwitted.

A pain in my neck, from behind.

Now all over. Did others find?

Pain. Ache. Hurt. An unbearable feeling.

Why do they eat as I lay here bleeding?

Ghouls of forgotten lore

Voodoo practice done for.

I am becoming one of them. I am finished.

I will soon be dead. I will be…I am famished.

L. Paul Fobert Jr.

February 06, 2011

I Am What I Am

Hungry. To feed.

Need what I need.

Moving slow, but as fast as I must.

Bloody victims leave me in the dust.

Thirsting for humans who are gory.

The tasty ones are over forty.

Searching graveyards,

fruitless. Backyards,

not so much.

To feel, touch,

I don’t relate. I hunger for human flesh and a brain.

Eating’s my pastime. It is fun. It’s what gives humans pain.

Maybe I should join others,

of my kind. Eat some mothers.

My appetite is wet,

expectations are met,

the smell of mouth-watering flesh,

it possesses me. Hunger, fresh.

My victim heads to the street.

Running, yet walking. These feet,

are burdened.


They need to stay

and still the day.

They are brainless,

I am fearless.

On the run.

This is fun.

Around the twist,

I met a fist.

Their numbers were many

And I wasn’t any.

I was the hunter. How could they be hunting me?

Earth. The world. My eating ground. They let me be.

Why? I must be confined.

This is my final bind.

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