No more looking outside for good
this time. The resurrected dead can scratch
their hands to mash, puke against
the doors, rag their faded clothes stupid
but the boards aren’t coming off the windows.
All gnarling, all radio—I won’t think about
the thrash-step monsters from the broadcasts
anymore. I want acceptable levels of gore,
my splatter film party trays of sheep guts
glowing beautifully. I’m watching
Zombie movies until it’s all over out there.
I’d just rather those cinematic episodes
of violence, those monochromatic atrocities,
those delightfully orchestrated eat scenes
shuffling around in my brain. Each death
resurrects with a rewind, and film leaves
no residue of kill-guilt afterwards. Used to be
I wanted something from outside
these farmhouse windows. I remember
hanging signs: WELCOME/ALIVE/SAFE/
INSIDE. They’ll come back or they won’t,
but the best thing about the living, about
the dead: we’ll all get to see some blood,
laugh when there’s no happy ending.