Confessions of an American Zombie

Our etched green-eyes
on our black watches;
our scorpion-tickled minds
fixated
on money-magnetized grinds

that pull our souls into darkness
like full-lipped aesthete moths
to the shining shaming glass-encased flame,

bumping... bumping... against
the 'junkie's' reflection
of our own immodest ambition...

that cold golden Cobra
whose power we coveted,
whose red-eyes scanned ours for lies
(and found them,)
whose hypnotic ears we showered
with melodic songs
we dreamt would sanctify
the unholy venom
of those dripping fangs...

perhaps one evening
clasping a golden necklace
upon a lovely white neck,
the white-collar porphyriac feels an urge to seize
to bite
to drink blood...
he does not...

quickly he is filled
with moral horror...
he fastens the necklace
and gives the compliment...

breathes in and out
swallows...
swallows...

arranged hands of warning point
up to mid-night
and my eyes beam forth
a deranged blue light...

and then it's another mad dream...
another deranged meme, another manic night
of electric-bit hours
to defy our maligned shadows and

to ply our fine and other arts,
and shed our souls
under the blankets...

to boil, coil and die
to emerge new