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Cracks (1 out of 23)

Contributed by skyhawk432 on Saturday, 18th August 2007 @ 03:06:01 PM in AEST
Topic: abstract

I shot the zombie--I thought--would
kill me,
instead, he stumbled out to the
Grand Strand Streets
and was crushed by falling boulders.

Before I got away, he reanimated
his mastication hole
and told me those
damn quails;

big mouthed beakers, drop
sedimentary bombs
to the infected streets:

the leagued justice for the
head-shot dead.

They were the cause of
noise pollution, smashed highways,
unsafe monorails,
trolley cars slanted sideways;

these beakers were grandly divided
as the heroic desolators--
like such a word exists--
and the destructive guardians.
He said, before I brained him,
that he would rather be
a contradiction
than live
under rubble pressure.

Copyright © skyhawk432 ... [ 2007-08-18 15:06:01]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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