Via the wonderment that is the interwebz, I found someone (Roz Kaveney) who wrote some pretty great zombie poetry. Yes, you read that correctly, zombie fucking poetry. Here are some of the better ones:
Some of them run at you – you must be fast
to hope to get away. And some are slow.
The key to your survival is to know
which ones are which. There was a time, now past,
when they all shambled, all stank of the grave
that they’d left recently. And they were made
by hand, by craftsmen. You were still afraid.
But they were tame, somebody’s household slave
The quick wild ones are feral, a disease
that you’ll catch if they catch you. Yet they treat
the old slow kind politely if they meet.
Offer them bits of people. On their knees.
The dead are snobs. The stench of long decay
outranks the slick young beast who rose today.
The blank expressions, dull eyes, of each face
May lead you to believe they have no soul,
whereas their death and rebirth made them whole
united corpse and spirit in one place.
Their bodies punish sinners, free them too
to see the living God and serve His will.
It’s Him who pulls them from the grave to kill
to tear apart, and bite, and gnaw, and chew.
His servants work their fingers to the bone.
Killing the clock around. It’s how they pray
watching the movements of His face each day
He whispers that he knows them for His own.
And we pray too – we hope they’ll pass us by
that only unbelieving sinners die.
If, shambling past, they smash a porcelain bowl,
a marble faun, perhaps embed a shard
inside their putrid foot,it may be hard
to understand their sudden frenzied howl
is ecstasy not pain. They all love art
but not as we do. Their long drawn out screams
are gorgeous music . Sometimes in your dreams
you hear it and it terrifies your heart.
That’ss just a fragment of its dark effect
on their decayed and very different brains.
Eyes drop out, ears fall off, but there are gains
refined and subtle senses. They select
the finest brains to eat. For them a taste
so fine, that, in our skulls, it’s just a waste.
They are so many. Stand on a high place
and watch them shamble. Gray as winter cloud
the sea of faces, and they moan so loud
it’s like a scream. And every single face
is marked with all the signs of quick decay
and yet they still stand up, and wander round.
It’s like a flood. Those standing on high ground
watch each last bit of dry land fall away
and know there’s no way they can stop the tide.
Sooner or later tides will always turn
but meanwhile there’s no wood for you to burn,
no food to eat, and no friend at your side.
They are all dead. Don’t tell yourself the lie
that you’ll survive. Just walk down there and die.
And some are children. Thin, and fierce, and fast.
It takes them quickly, and it dries them out..
The old ones moan; the small dead children shout
and yell as if in playgrounds. They’ll run past
you, double back. You see their teeth
and their dead eyes, and open bloodless wounds.
Their shrieks are wordless, just unthinking sounds.
And through their wounds you see dried bone beneath.
They’re many. You can fight them off. You cut
them down, and trample them. Something will break
inside you. Once you thought it for hope’s sake
you went on fighting. Bitter in your gut
an acid sense, that hope has told you lies.
The future’s vicious jaws and mad dead eyes
Zombie 14: (this one’s pretty Survivors-esque)
They eat as many of us as they can.
And then they slowly start to fall to bits.
It’s a slow process. Cell by cell it hits.
Bones disconnect. They stumble. In a span
of weeks they will be rot, tatter and shard.
Some of us live. We hide. We eat cold food
from cans. Snare and kill rabbits. In a wood
we have a cabin. Our survival’s marred
by what we’ve lost. The cities turn to dust
take art books music with them. We forget
all that we were,or loved or hoped for. Yet
the worst of all the things we lose is trust.
All strangers are the dead returned. Our fear
will go on killing, year by bloody year.