Dead people, they're like the living... but dead!

The dead people who are alive, or the living dead... as they are affectionately called. My god man! What interesting specimens I dare say. Nothing short of bewildering. An amalgam of balderdash, confusion, misshaped dreams and idealism.

They are perfect targets, these living dead, for honing one's skill in the Arts. What incredible prospects they present in all their vulnerable glory. My god man! They're like a rabble of Dodos asking for it. Nay! They are absolutely praying for it!

Delusion my friends, delusions of grandeur and a soft shell, like that of a sea turtle's hatch-ling and its moist carapace. Soft targets I would say... Soft and in great abundance.

Can you dissect the living dead? Most surely. I would say that they present themselves pro bono for a quick dissection of their innermost. Their so called suffering amuses me the most. That and their total lack of emotional intelligence coupled with the semi-illiterate notion that they know what the world is all about.

And what if it's made up of nothing they think they "feel inside" ? What if it would be made up of the exact opposite, and all in all it would not even be about that but it would be about a great puzzle they never thought of solving?

The living dead?! Bah! More like the living room dead, or the waiting room people waiting for the Death Train to ride by their lives so that they may declare they did not take it because they are too dead to move... Come on!

IS THAT THE BEST YOU'VE GOT YOU MORONS?!

I hear these word being flung around like: FEELINGS and EMOTIONS and shit. What the fuck is that? They are not those kind of words! Then again if you really come to an understanding of WORDS you soon discover that none of the WORDS one tosses around are words but WORDS. And one does not toss around words. It's like throwing live hand grenades into a trampoline wall and then playing squash with the eventual rebound, using your emotions as a racket.

That is not artistic, that is not profound, that is not enlightening nor is it liberating, it is simply MORONIC and stupid! And suicidal. Just putting the last one out there. Who knows... maybe someone decides to bite a bit off Reality in this night-morning-full moon sunset sunrise in the East... crap... thing...

Poetry ensues:

THE LIVING DEAD

the living dead hang by a thread
between this life, the next and a slight thickness of the head
their skulls resound and rebound from their hearts to their sex to their heads
they think and discuss of great wondrous expanses of ground
but it's just the echo of the empty i.e. A SOUND...

YES YOU ARE DEAD, the skull it did said
YES YOU ARE NUMB, the heart did resound
YES YOU ARE NOT BUT WHO KNOWS, MAYBE SOON YOU MIGHT WANT TO, but the sex falls asleep just ahead of the nerve
YES IT IS I THAT AM YOU, their heads talk to them about old things that can never be new
BUT ANYWAYS, BEWARE OF THE CURVE! AND BE MINDFUL OF VERBS... they hurt like a motherfucker!

the living dead remind me of things old and new
they are like a funny cue, just when you're about to feel a new plot will ensue
you cannot but rue the plot that ensues; it is all a ruse to amuse, for the dead
they think that if they play at being confused they can feign their living attendants
and hope not to catch you.

the muse that doth still peruse whilst skipping its cues...
but you, but you... meaning I who are intentionally missing the cue...

hilarity will most definitely ensue...

I AM QUITE SPECIAL YOU KNOW, the living who thinks it is dead moans like a crow
I DESIGN MY DISGUISE ON THE GO, ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF BRIGITTE BARDOT

DO YOU NOW, i resort to the retort, WHILE OBSERVING THE SNORT IN ITS WORT

I AM DIVINE, ON ME THEY RECLINE, FOR FEATHERS AND WINE AND MUCH COMPANY, THE SWINE

YOU DON'T SAY, i say without thinking or really caring, oh well...

I AM GOING TO HELL, it says

HELL? HELL? AH! hell! QUITE WELL! i heard it's lovely this time of year, but i do not say that
HELL IS SWELL! LET'S DINE IN HELL, i lie as the spider does lie to the fly...

WILL YOU COME WITH?

WHY THE HELL NOT! this place is boring i guess and i would like a caress but i do not say that...
EVER HEARD OF CHESS OR BACKGAMMON CARDS, THE FUNNY RETARDS, FRENCH PHILOSOPHERS LIKE LYOTARD AND MICHEL FOUCAULT AND BRIGITTE BARDOT?

BIRGITTE? BRIGITTE BADOT! THAT IS ME! C'EST MOIS!

QUOIS?

OUI OUI!
wee wee? YES! YOU MEAN YES!

YES AND NO, BECAUSE I READ JEAN JACQUES ANNAUD!

DIDN'T HE DIRECT MOVIES AND SUCH?

I DON'T IMDB MUCH...

WELL YOU SHOULD, IT'S LIKE... NEVERMIND. TELL ME ABOUT WHAT'S ON YOUR MIND.

ME MYSELF AND I IN A FUNNY DISGUISE AND MAYBE AN OGRE OR TWO, A FUNNY TATOO AND MY EGG YOLK SHAMPOO, A GOLDEN DOUBLOON, THE BLOSSOMING MOON, A BLACK-WHITE RACKOON AND THE TRAIN FROM MUMBAY TO RANGOON

YOU SOUND JUST LIKE A LOON...

DID I MEAN TO SAY THAT TOO SOON?

WHAT? YOU THINK I AM GOING TO SWOON?

WELL ONE OF US SIMPLY HAS TO DO THAT.

FINE. THE SWOONING IS DONE! NOW, LET ME TELL YOU THE PUN!

THE PUN?

IT IS ALL A JOKE YOU HALF-HUMAN YOLK! YOU BLUNDERING HALF-RETARDED EMOTIONAL BALOON! DO YOU SEE THIS SPOON? i take out the spoon... I CAN WRITE WITH THE SPOON ON YOUR HEAD AND ALL THE MEMORIES FROM YOU THEY WILL... NO. THEY HAVE JUST FLED. INTO MY WONDERFUL HEAD... LET ME SEE. AH! CHILDHOOD AND TRAUMA AND MUMMA. I SEE.
i kiss on the lips, i check all the organs and between the hips. again i find some lips... they are sticky and red and blood rushes all the way to my head... such a pornographic and lustful cad i am, but just for a tad and then back to work after the finishing bolt and the ensuing sexual revolt! so where were we?
ah, the breasts between which the vital organ it rests. YOUR SEX IT IS FINE, NOW PLEASE DO RECLINE AND DON'T TRY TO WHINE, IT IS I WHO AM TRYING TO DIVINE!

THE HEART
it is like a tart
it takes a bit of art
so try not to fart
i might damage some clockworks in there
and do not despair
i am doing my best
by helping you on the way to pro-gress
but i must digress
your heart she is ready to start...

that's quite a lot, i thought! i thought it is dead but it thinks, does it naught?!

THE HEAD
all but fled
in order to repair the head one must go back
to the place where it starts
to the heart but not the one in the breast but the one
from whence the brain starts to depart

THE SEX
strange concotion of vice
a dreamy device if one knows how to splice
pleasure and anguish and one does by-pass the price
methinks i will have it thrice
and i will visit again
and again and again
the sex needs lots of works
like a masterpiece, each has it quirks
but i am a master and i have my own perks
that come with their quirks...

TINKER TINKER TINKER

ET VOILA, MADEMOISELLE BARDOT! YOU HEART SHE IS FINE, YOUR HEAD, WELL.. NEVERMIND... AND YOUR SEX SHOULD BE BY NOW IN SOME STATE OF DIVINE REVELATION!

QOUIS?

NEVERMIND. CONGRATULATIONS. NOW YOU ARE ALIVE!

IS THAT SOME KIND OF JOKE?

YES! YES! NOW FUCK-OFF AND GO BE HAPPY!

MAN, I FEEL CRAPPY!

AHA! NOW YOU'RE STARTING TO GET?

WHAT?

WHAT THERE WAS TO GET - THAT NO ONE IS DEAD UNTIL THE TIME FROM THE BODY IS FLED. NOW GO BE ALIVE AND GO FIND A TRIBE OR SOME SHIT. YOUR TIME IS NOT YET. JUST ENJOY THE HIVE. AND REMEMBER: YOU ARE NOT DEAD, BUT ALIVE!

FUCK YOU!

YEAH YEAH! FUCK YOU TOO!
CALL ME?


Man! Dead people! They're like the living, but more, and they have unresolved issues no one can resolve, except themselves and me. But I don't come cheap!