Struggling in the Butter

Struggling in the butter

With sticky wings aflutter

In a greasy kitchen grave

Lies this tiny thrashing knave;

Insignificant bluebottle

Yearning for a throttle

Or returning to stale air

Any place that is more fair.

But drawn in by a smell

It began its trip to hell,

Now futilely it struggles

Because a snack it tried to smuggle.

It lies alive interred

While looking just absurd;

One moment it flew with care

But now it’s unaware

That death is nigh in sight

And it may give up its fight,

But still it battles on

Greenly dreaming of the lawn.

Then death I remember

Lurks in nights before December

And any rainy day

I might take my parting way

With not a bit of choice

In vain I’ll raise my voice

And ask to stay a while

And walk one further mile.

I do however know

That one day I must go

And all my silly battle

Will be as a baby’s rattle

Or resounding gongs;

Life it won’t prolong.

So like the poor bluebottle

I await my final throttle:

Struggling in the butter

With sticky wings aflutter.

Welcome to Zombieland

This is not your typical matinee horror in a dark and moldy theatre

You’re not running from red-eyed, blood-vomiting corpses

You’re not carrying a double-barreled shotgun

Blasting the disfigured heads off of the people you once knew

You are not the lone survivor

Standing helpless but triumphant on a highway

Blemished with the husks of cars and the stains of what once were people

Welcome to Zombieland

Row number 6 seat 6

Rotting like one of the gangrenous boil-covered zombies

Oh, but you don’t look like them

Your caked-on makeup or your bath of cologne

Your skanky Guess clothes or preppy Hollister

Covers the fecal mass of festering tissue within

Welcome to Zombieland

Forced to do the bare minimum in your 9 to 5

Zoning out in the class you didn’t pay for

Returning like a drone the job you hate

And talking robotically to the people you loathe

Coming home dragging feet to the door

To the family and friends you take for granted

Pull up a chair 

And stare until your eyes are gritty from forgetting to blink

Welcome to Zombieland

Sit 

And watch like a drooling catatonic 

The dim aura of blue from screens fills the lightless rooms

Computers and TVs

Theatres and cell phones

ATM’s and iPods

Screens, Screens, Screens, Screens

They seem to shelter but their flimsy protection is bound to break

Allowing the moths and rust and thieves to break in and steal

Look deep into the gilded mirror!

Bloodshot eyes and sallow heliophobic skin

Lurching legs aimlessly carried by appetites

Babbling and moaning in an unintelligible dialect

Blatantly unaware of the crumbling world around

Lounging oblivious in apathetically strewn filth

And sometimes in reasonless fits of passion

We gather in groups and perform unspeakable acts of violence on each other

Welcome to Zombieland

From under the crumbling bridge

The night sluggishly pulls a slimy moon into the pitch

Bleeding out its pallid light on the dim city

And splashing its aura on the

Corners of buildings, the frail windows and the mirror-pools

In the street, dancing back into the icy breathless-air

A fog of exhale glimmers in the moon-blood

From under the crumbling bridge

Blackness heaped on blackness held back

By the weak arms of Luna

A cough echoes in the throat of the bridge

From the deep stomach of its distended belly

It groans with its digestion

While a one-eared cat walks by

- looking for smaller rats to tackle

Then, as if it opened a tiny shimmering eye,

An orange speck of light shines out from underneath

While the bridge’s uncooperative dinner

Wakes to a damp cigarette

Are they so pretty?

The gleam upon the resplendent façades

Strikes the surface of the waters

And then is cast back

Upon their gargantuan sides

Like a childish game of keep-away

Those solemn obelisks look down condescendingly

On two bedroom homes

And squat industries at their feet

They shine in the sun like Kings frozen in their splendor

Children saunter among their roots

Like ants among the redwoods

The city noise is dull and subdued

As it sighs under the summer sun

The homeless seek the shelter of pillared shade

While the affluent seek air-conditioned cabs

Two classes

One climbing up the monstrous spires

By stepping on the faces of the others

Then the silence is cut

A gong smashed at the feet of the steel and glass idols

The children run

And the buildings begin to fall like dominos

While the perfidious illusion is broken

P is for Pithy

Ah, this prevalent preposterous pretention once again:

People presuming to play the part of the Pardoner!

Please! Such pitiable perceptions perched on personal pride are pointless

They seemingly preach to prevent the pernicious poison prevailing;

While pervading the popular paltry position

Perhaps we Plebeians should pay no heed to the proverbial verbal pugilists

But the paralyzed patrons lack the prudence and puissance to perceive perjury

In the perverted parlance from pugnacious puss

Presently, the public that peruses this paradoxical poetic-prose grows perplexed

Yet they do not pursue the many paged publication that can penetrate the portents on this paper

This poor paradigm pronounces the pandemic of pessimism and passivity in this place

There is a privation of passion and proficient pondering pooled

The pedestrian pack proliferates only the pathetically plain perseverance of the pompous parasitic persona

Permissiveness! Parsimony! Promiscuity! Power!

The four pillars of our pallid plagued Parthenon

The putrefied potency of vacillating piggish peons

Per contra, there are some penitent and some pure

Some puerile and some the prey of the perfidious

For this parcel of pilgrims on the paths of perdition I will prescribe progress guided by Providence

And persuade toward pursuits more profitable than powder purposes that plummet under pressure.

Pick your party promptly because the periphery will not provide protection.


Sincerely,

F.L.