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.
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