Maggots spill from one wrenched hand;
from the other, your tedious to-do lists.
Listen or regret: undead lips
upthrust from soil, grunting
out the songs you would forget.
If Schrödinger’s cat is both
dead and alive, don’t
open that box.
Mournful twanging from the pyre.
Decay perfumes the dark.
A toast, dear heart, to your desire:
one final autonomic spark.
I love you for your brains.
Best wishes for a zombitastic holiday from The Cave, the Hive.