Women with plastic faces
grace us, shit-faced
in this tar trapped existence.
Our hearts choke us as we breathe.
I cannot inhale the zeal,
the fanaticism
the sense of it all is way great.
In lactose doses,
we are saturated to the core
but our bones will be strong
lasting longer in the dirt
than our spirits ever had.

Whimsical, we stumble to the grave
in love with ourselves,
guided by Ze and his long fingernails.
The sharp pain reminding,
We’re Zombies.