Night of the Living Dead Beat Poets Society

In black painted seashells candles burn, eyes stare blank - no one is home; they barely live and never learn, incense-smoked souls in the twilight zone. Nightfall casts a silver net, Nagasaki is back projected; a chanted dirge from a silhouette, nasal whines, shrill and affected. Perfume drunk from china bowls, the atmosphere is cold, ceramic; red lasers burn like smoking coals, incompetently mock Satanic . Verses dredged from heaving lungs, voices cracked and centre stage; speaking words in foreign tongues, dry ice swirls, it's all the rage. Bongo drums thud out a beat, faces white as Arctic frost; frozen minds, no spark or heat, dynamics cast aside and lost. Born too late I voice this treason, yearning for a time apart, when soul and purpose, rhyme and reason were all to the poets art.