Zombie Tales- Under Supplied chapter 4rth w/poem

Hey you, with arms held wide
walking around, like someone died
you’d probably learn, if you ever tried.
But instead of living, your brains been fried.

You shamble on, without a thought
and pick up things you never bought.
You’re heart is dead, but you should not
be acting like, you wanna get caught.

Zombie Tales:
Under supplied
chapter 4rth w/ poem

I determined to walk around for a few days till it became safe to return to town. Thievery, especially thieving from the most prominent person in town, was not looked upon kindly.  but a zombie can walk a really long time. Sleep is not a necessity.  Heading off in a random direction, I shuffled away, with my eyes closed. Almost immediately I plodded right into the middle of a wolf pack.  apparently it had been slim pickins for them, for they were ravagingly hungry. zombie flesh is not dog food. I had to kill the lot of them. For extra measure, I skun them too, pelts would fetch a good price in the right market.

I salted and scraped the flesh side of their skins. This, the first step towards a nice supple tanned hide. It wasnt until I had rolled them up, flesh side in, and affixed them to my pack, that I realized my first challenge of the day.

Looking at my gear, I realized that I had never, in fact resupplied. I also had not taken a shower and removed the grime of previous road miles, from my body. My packs still held the spoils of ill gotten gains. I had about 20 pelts with me. Heavy and bulky they were. Hard earned, I knew I would not be abandoning them.

Food was not so hard to come by, but  ammo was another story. Spending time exposed and curled up around rocks had allowed  moisture to find its way into my powder supplies. I now had only 6 working bullets left, which themselves went to a pitiful weapon. I was drastically overloaded and under-supplied. My clothes, decaying rags.

True to my zombie role, I continued undeterred. “Duuuuuh, Town boring”.” No town. Must walk”. “No bullets. Duuuuuh”. “I could die. Must fix”.

I began to keep an eye out for solutions to my problem, while walking in a straight line. Soon I was cursing the world. No solutions were entering the picture. All it would take is another threat like that dog pack and I would be forced to abandon my pelts and run away as fast as unzombified feet could carry me. The unfruitful miles, added anger to frustration. 

The further afield I went, the more needy was my situation. It was a bit like playing russian roulette with fate. Zombie, though I was, I was not about to get myself killed by such a manner as having no bullets. I soon came upon three travelers. They were well supplied and confidant. They offered me meat which I had no need off. I eyed their weapons, knowing they carried everything I could want and need.

Alas, 6 bullets would not do the trick, neither would a knife to the throat. These three watched out for each other. Roaming apart but always within eye contact, ready to come to the aid if one should need it. Still, they had extended hospitality. I became the fourth to their third. Pulling to the rear of the line, I tagged along.

Zombie Tales- Running to stand still chapter 3rd w/ poem

Every day is like the last
doing the same, as in the past
heading for death, my walk is fast
The trail I walk is very vast.

I take this way, to ease my pain
for everyday my life does drain
away from body and from brain
never really becoming insane.

To lose oneself in fantasy
is wanting more of misery
to live a life in history
is crumbling skin of paper tree.

To shuffle down this decaying trail
toward boredom walks, with no avail
driven on without a sail
eternal sleep, oblivion hail.

Zombie Tales-
Running to stand still
chapter 3rd w/ poem

I awake from zombie sleep. My open gut heaves as I get to my feet and stretch, uncurling myself like a lizard from a hot rock. I walk back into town. The bee’s nest has returned to normal. I walk right up to, and pass without challenge, those who days (or years) before had wished me dead and called me thief. Stupid, ignorant flies. They buzz away, with no thoughts for tomorrow. In perfect complement with their lack of concern for thoughts of yesterday.

I meant to supply up, then leave for better things. But bugs amuse me. The unceasing efforts to which they will go just for a taste of my rotting self. a  feast upon a dead thing, all they ever want from me. Watching them always passes time and my brains being oatmeal, I did not have a strong capacity for forward thinking. Almost immediately  upon hearing the first buzzz and casting my cold white eye upon a target, I forgot my ambition.

It happened near the home of the towns self-proclaimed top dog. A prominent citizen, he was the last stop of my forgotten plan. But forgetting to care, I made him my first stop instead. Home sweet home, the picture on his wall said. I laughed to myself at the joke, though it be joke, only to me. This guy thought himself a peace-keeper, and patted himself on the back daily. 

He had a weapon upstairs. Yes, I knew him and his home sweet home,  just like I knew everything else. His weapon was smaller than I prefered, but effective enough, if handled with care. It would suffice. A means to an end.

This being, my zombie adventure, and interlude if I may, as the harvest ripens.

I zombie shuffled in wanton oblivion. Dull, dull, scrape, shuffle. I saw warm bodies in the home but they were not immune to my bored contempt. I shuffled up the stairs, opened the door, Where is that weapon? I’ll grab it and be on my zombie way.” But the top dog set up such a howling, I had to leave  before even I had begun.

I rolled outa there as fast as my feet would carry me. Back out-of-town, back to the rock. I folded myself again, preparing to melt away as is my method. But a zombie minute feels like a year. Sleep would see the peace keeper’s ire cooled.  

Yet, I had done with sleep. If I were not already dead, I would surely kill myself from sheer predictable boredom.

So I rested without sleep, till my wounds did close. Not very much time at all. And I walked out further afield. Closing my eyes, and spinning in a circle. Or perhaps, it was simply a hillock which propelled my catatonic corpse in the direction it went.

Zombie shuffles, to the horizon, wishing it were ellusive but knowing it wasnt. Not when all  horizons look exactly the same.

Zombie Tales- the passing of time chapter 2nd w/poem

Open heart with bars of steel
emotional loss, unable to feel
Driven fast,  my insides peel
on a quest, for what is real.

All day long, I feel dead
walking along with a hole in my head
looking for someplace to bed
after being very well fed.

Day in, day out, I drone about
unable to scream, unable to shout
my very existence, do I doubt
this is why, my mind wants out.

Do you doubt who you are?
have you fallen down that far?
Are you like a burned out star?
Is your life kept in a jar?

Let it loose, let it free
live to be, what you can be
everyone in front can see,
that is why I, is no longer me.

Zombie Tales-
The passing of time
chapter 2nd w/ poem

After rummaging the books on the table, I make my way through the kitchen, grabbing a leg of meat on my way to the back closet. I had broken in, in broad daylight, so what?  I could see my neighbors locked box, but did not bother to try its lock. That secret, was beyond my kine. But I would play with all the rest of the things which lay open before me. Perhaps I could find something worth my minimal effort.

He saw me there. I knew he would. It’s not like I had done anything at all to disguise myself. Zombies are crass fellows. They tend to walk straight to their desires without ducking or pausing. Is there a wall in the way? Crash!

Me, the epitome of Zombie persistence. Faintly I hear a bug buzzing itself up into a frenzy. That’s one of the drawbacks to having rotted flesh. Buzzz buzzz, STOP THIEF! buzzz buzzz. Why are you in my house? buzz buzz.

To bored to kill him, I tuck my weapon inside its case, putting my hands inside my cloaked pockets and say, “yup, you caught me. Can we just be friends now? Heres your stuff back”. But for some reason my stupid jolly neighbor stayed angry. He got all bent outa shape over it and started to punch me. It was just a matter of time before, gun in hand he would have me meet my maker.

My maker, hahahahaha. Silly buzzing man, he does not even know what consists of this thief inside his house.

I do him a favor, and leave. Jogging quickly around a bend. Then another bend, a series of rights. Stopping at last in the place of shadow right under his nose. I wait. targets have such short memories. I watch silently from my place. The neighbor has many comrades. Soon they conglomerate around me, milling back and forth like dogs looking for a scent. They have no idea how ineffective they are. I wish they would hurry up and give up, I’m getting bored just standing here in the shadows.

Will wonders never cease? One of the bugs found me. No, it was not skill of pace, rather in his chicken scratching, he stumbled over his own foot, and bumble tripped right into my arms. He is quite lucky. Had I prefered to move just 3 inches, he would have bumbled his way right off the top of the roof, into a plummeting death.

Bugs amuse me. Gathering my heavy load of crap tight into my being, I bolt through the crowd faster than anyone could have imagined, leaving behind only the faint smell of contempt. It was all too easy. I headed outside, but didn’t go far. Why should I? I still had this big load of crap to dump. In fact, I had accomplished nothing at all. Except the passing of time.

Time, I had aplenty. Now that the whole town was after me, stirred up like a bee’s nest, I figured I had better lay low. I found a rock, great, big, and imposing, wrapped my self around it, weapon out and ready of course. I slept. Zombie sleep, is eternal. An hour is like a year. For time exists only to man and his ilk. was it three days or three years I slept? Waking, I begin again. Oh how very thirsty I am, and how very,very bored.

read: Zombie Tales chapter one by clicking this link.

Zombie Tales- Walking out of the water. chapter 1 w/ poem

Bottomwalker through the night,
knows not wrong, knows not right.
First to win, first to fight,
closes its eyes, for to have no site.

Deaths all it knows, it breathes in wrong.
It runs into battle, blood thirsty and strong.
It travels the land in destruction song
and revels in its tendrils long.

Taking all without a care,
Showing sins no one would dare.
Reach out it’s hand for all to share,
be ware the cost.

Destroyers fare.

Zombie Tales chapter 1rst. 
Walking out of the water

I had traveled this road many times before. Indeed, the road was my home. My bed was anywhere I chose to lay my head. An old, and experienced hand, a master of technique.

Sometimes it grows dull, this deadly life of adventure. When every kill is just a warm body with a bullseye, every bug is just a nuisance. But, I am not deterred. All things flow in circles. I have only to wait and see, what is around the next corner?

This wanderlust which takes me every October. When the leaves turn crisp and leave their perches to reinvent themselves. Becoming earth, becoming shelter or home for squirrels, becoming a mothers protective embrace for soon to exist buds, becoming any number of things really.

They do it, by letting go. They cast themselves from their branch of origin, open their clasp and simply fall. The wind is the helmsman. Who can know wither it blowest?

Thus my friend the weathercock, announces the changing of the guard. Pointing at the seasons promise. Will it be a good harvest? Will there be famine?

I am lowly serf, waiting on the march of time. I am hobo, tramping with my stick, cooking beans over the fire. The dull colors of this world will change with the current. Every rain brings a rainbow, though its end will always be elusive.

It’s hard to find a challenge, in a world known like the back of ones hand. I walked into town. The town so dull, that even its excitement is just a rerun of things done before. This is my home. oh well, I shall go through the routine with my eyes closed. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do, If this world is no longer a challenge, I shall challenge myself. Stealth? Fuck you. Mission? Fuck you. You are so pathetic, I can fuck you with my eyes closed, and my brain half asleep.

I can be a zombie and still succeed. DuuuuuuuuuuH. Maybe then I can drum up some excitement. I’d best stock up on supplies. This paper house of a body has needs after all. Not to mention I am so loaded up with crap, I need to dump it off somewhere. Must have been too many beans in the system.

Why are people so obsessed with their crap? They examine every detail as if they are looking for treasure. How incomprehensibly dull. Nope, not for me. I’ll unload later. What the hell, I may as well hit the bar first.

The bar sits just a ways down from the supply station. acquiring a few drinks in exchange for the tales I tell, The liquid does nothing for me, leaving my thirst no more quenched than it was, when I first came into this rat hole of a bar. I, zombie shuffle out of there. Duuuuuuuh.

Next door lives a man. He’s quite the guy. Everyone likes him, and he likes himself too. I just know this guy has some kind of evil secret hidden in his closet. I have no idea what it is, but this guy can’t be for real. No way. He’s too content. Fucking bastard.

I also know that it is not ever likely that I will discover his secret. His very existence is a big neon sign in my face. FUCK YOU, it says. I hate him. But my passion of hate is just as dull as the rest of this town. Whats the point?

I know I won’t discover anything, but I break into his house anyway. It is next door to the bar after all. I am too bored to care what I do. I’m a zombie with my eyes closed.

What will be, will be. I’ll shuffle my zombie walk till I can’t walk no more, or until, someone shoots me in the head. I am thirsty. So very thirsty.

Path

a down trodden traveler,
walks a lonely trail.
each step brings him closer,
to pass or to fail.

He lays down his head, so tired from his long battle. Wounds that are deep, sucking away his life. He sees the end, feels it’s nearing, yet even now he fights, trying to keep his head up.

Life, what is the point of life? he wonders to himself. Is it a force that drives me, Thus making me powerless to guide my own hands and feet? Do i fool myself with some notion that I am something?

Illusions thrive, when both are right and both are wrong.

There is a force on this path. But does it drive me? No. Instead it mearly waits and beckons. Here it is, come ye here. Only the worthy will make the journey. Though they are tired, weak, and hurting.

Only the swine wallow beside the path and say, No, the path should come to me. This is why eye have hoofs to dig, and snout to root. Eye make my own path, do not mind my mud. My pig pen is lovely.

Am i something? The answer is both yes and no. No one is a master, except the author of the path upon which he walks. The question therefore, is; Is this well rutted path, worthy? Or do i have hooves by which i make a muddy trail?

Am i driven? Yes. But the driver has a lenient hand. Perhaps it is callous from use, perhaps it is limpid unconcern that guides it. The hoofed ones have God be dead. But what do the hands and feet say?

Join me, join me. Let us walk this path together and step where it leads. With each step, we make a decision and each decision becomes a stone.

Let us make a path, not of mud but of strong stone upon which tender foot may travel, free of mud, and the mire which accompanies it. 

He lays down his head, so tired from his long battle. Wounds that are deep, seem to suck away his life. He acknowledges the end, feels it’s nearing, yet even now he yields, willing to keep his head up.

And life lives.

Illusions


Lovely deer,
in a forest wide
prance and play
 like an ocean tide.
one, a buck
one, a doe.
one, in rut
one, in flow.
sea the two
what a find
buck and doe
love defined.

is Life what it seems? will we not know, except it be upon deaths door. eyes, open. lips speak. Ahah, what a filthy wretch i have been! i have wasted my time, it was all for nought. Illusions. i have been part and parley to illusions. what a wretched soul i am. If only i had known i was but a speck in a bugs I, who is itself a string upon a blot.

Time does not exist. illusions again. Yet it is marked with a label. imprisoned with boundaries well-defined. It is now time for this, it is now time for that. we  did fool ourselves into false security. though i mark my time in years, it is still a lie.

love is the alpha and the omega. whom is it, that does not crave it. to posses it. to be possessed by it. that’s all it comes down to. to have it or not.

who does not yearn to be the biggest buck in the forest and get the prettiest doe. but illusions again. look closely. nothing will ever be what it seems. Such is the fate of those who embrace illusion and call it fact. like time, they march to the ticking of their defined clock. and darkened beings are but zombies to illusion.

the doe bows her head. eager anticipation. the buck above the doe stands proud protector. look again. the doe is a buck. head lowered to gore the one who stands tall and unaware. that which paints the picture of serenity was nothing more than false illusions in the eye.  the eye which calls itself into being. then looking upon its creation, declares, this is good.

just like clockwork. predictable and barren. lost in illusion. nothing is as it seems. nothing will ever be.