Sticky
Wade the sludge poisonous to momentum
One day at a time inching toward the unreachable
And even when there is movement much is adjacent to where I need to go
Some have never had gunk between toes and shit under nose
But I can't let that slow me down when I need every shred of confidence just to pick up the pencil
And not worry every moment about the piper calling and me bouncing up and down like a red trampoline
Did every sacrifice mean nothing will I always be pulled down by this quicksand
I know full well that every day needs to count and that it adds up
But there is more on my checklist so off I go sinking again until the day is out
And I seep my remaining energy into trying to not think about the lack
I can't let a daily escape be my only safe haven I need to work with my hands even though my tools are right out of reach
Are others like me in the same myre missing days until they grow old and fat and their creativity is drained from their brains to their toes
Until you retire and wonder where it all went why can't I tap into it like I used to
The sludge has overtaken my spirit but my will to craft is still flickering
However ones must wonder how much longer until I can step foot on the starting line and out of this fly trap
Robotic
Clinking every step feeling heavier than yesterday
Absurd other than refueling there is no growth in this chassis
Wind up the rear and surge circuits that may
Every stride shoots echos to ring about the trusses
Happy like fresh oil sad like broken charging bay
Buzz goes the fizz of the battery percusses
Shrink down into self parts lined with telescopic splay
Never wonder only move from how the creator executes us
Hello World
Sinking, I go down through the green quicksand,
Beckoning hands grasp at my pockets that already have holes in them,
I see life so saturated every color so vivid and unique,
But line after line of zeros and ones seems to be the only way to feed a flock,
The doctor snipped out my left mind and my umbilical,
Leaving the right to rot with hungry stomach to match,
I am told to be what I know I am not to do what I should but I simply cannot,
I sit beside myself wondering why must I craft and stroke colors across canvas,
And dwell in rusty pipes and moldy structure,
But I would dive a vat of mud than to ever not be the true me
and crunch one more line of zeros and ones,
Hello World it's me,
I will not apologize for being the way I am and not the way people say I should be,
Life is a Cycle
Here we go again.
Everything about the babe
is new but the eyes.
The eyes show the truth.
A thousand lives lived. And a
thousand more to go.
The wheels on the bus
go round and we learn that what
goes up must come down.
We wear out the soles
of our shoes, and stretch our souls
towards each other.
If we are lucky,
we learn something, before it’s
time to go again.
Dress~Rehearse
Let's not die, wondering
what's Life-Like...
our mind betraying
its everlingering
preoccupation
with the
curtain
belying
we'd never
breathed deep
to pretend and
let it go again
in a minute
in a minute
always preparing
for the toss i n g
off of affaires...
the starched
tuxedo the
netted bonnet
closing in
closing in
wit fist-full,
wist two-feet's
distance whilst
looking on out
at the when
at the when
from the balm
or the ovens,
or the pit
or whatever
the most recent
version
our living
deeds and
testaments
have specified...
in false nows
for divvying up
the present
the present
long
before
the limo
or ambulance
or hearse
arrive...
09.02.2023
Don't Die Wondering? challenge @Raynstar
Steppers
Onward they go slave to my will,
Forever is my search for peace of mind, so ever forward I trudge until I've lost my feel,
Until these sore bones grind to brine,
I will not stop so I have faith the flesh heals,
One life to walk the way I choose,
There is no soul to stop my two trusty kickers from my jump to the stars,
I don't trust to hope where ignorance grows I've lit the fuze,
Only I can recall my story of no regrets, I kick up dirt behind me, where I go, let's see how far,
My Name Is Shallowgenepool and I Am a Zombieholic
Okay, I admit it, zombie novels are one of my guiltiest of pleasures. Sure, they're so predictable they seem like they're written from a template, but I can't help it! What's worse, I have read enough zombie fiction to write a doctorate dissertation on the subject. So, this is my chance to totally fucking geek out on the zombie, "Literature" I am drawn to like a tweaker to unwatched spool of copper wire. For those who are zombie illiterate, let me offer some of my waaaaay too thought out observations.
Cause of Zombie Apocalypse
In the majority of zombie novels, the zombification of humanity is almost always the result of science gone ass up. Basically, some scientists who must have gotten their degrees from a Cracker Jack box try to play God. What's worse, they're contamination protocol is so bad it was likely gotten for free on Pinterest. Apparently, no one at Build an Apocalypse Incorporated is smart enough to keep a can of Lysol handy in case their naughty zombie creator escapes its Petry dish. Now the reasons the virus is created in the first place can be divided into two categories (with the rare exception):
1. The zombifier is the result of rogue medical research. In this case, the scientists are blindly trying to create a panacea that ends all disease and lets people either live forever or at least as long as it takes for a box of Twinkies to go bad. Of course, the virus has other plans.
2. An evil government tries to create the ultimate biological weapon or the means to create super soldiers that can be shot, stabbed, blown up, or forced into having sexual relations with a Kardashian and continue to function. Personally, I think having sex with Kardashian would make for the perfect cause of a zombie apocalypse in the next, truly unique zombie saga. It makes total sense because I bet the poor doctor who has to do a Kardashian pap smear has to inform the CDC before and after the procedure takes place. My guess is that a Kardashian gyno exam is viewed by communicable disease experts with the same level of fear as if Starbucks started to offer iced weaponized anthrax, with fat-free botulism, a dusting of small pox, and a frothy foam of soy based bubonic plague on top ( one pump of antibiotic resistant gonorrhea syrup can be added for just fifty cents extra).
Know Your Zombie
Zombies in zombie apocalypse novels typically come in two varieties. Let's discuss.
1. The Slow Mover: The Slow Mover zombie is just that. Slow. These Zombies move slow and have the intelligence of moldy bread. The only advantage that the Slow Mover has is that it tends to roam in hordes. These hordes look a lot like the inside of a Walmart on a Sunday afternoon only the zombies have better hygiene and fashion sense. It is strength in numbers that allows the Slow Mover to be successful.
2. The Fast Mover: This zombie is becoming more popular in zombie novels. Typically, a Fast Mover zombie will be able to run instead of shamble slowly. This variety of undead also seems to have a bit of intelligence. This bit of intelligence is equivalent to that of someone who goes to one of those colleges run out of mobile homes that advertised during Judge Judy level of intelligence. For example, a Fast Mover may know how to open a door where the classic Slow Mover would have to beat on the door eventually opening it by the sure number of zombies trying to get what's on the other side.
Okay, now that the possible cause(s) of the zombie apocalypse and the characteristics of the undead has been established, we need to discuss how the virus all but wipes out the human race. Basically, it boils down to normally competent protective institutions like the military and police suddenly becoming about as competent as a FOX News anchor. There are many examples of how this is used in zombie apocalypse stories, but I will focus on the two most commonly used.
The Armed Forces
Somehow during the apocalypse, the militaries of the world manage to forget everything they have been taught. First, they forget how to secure a strong, defensible perimeter. Apparently, the branches of the military as portrayed in many zombie novels decide to make a Home Depot run before they enter the fray because their protective barrier of choice are chain link fences (maybe chain link was on sale?). Of course chain link fences will work against THOUSANDS of undead bodies putting all their weight on the fence. What's worse, the evacuation plans seem to have been drawn up by a third grader. To evacuate the living the military and police decide to protect survivors by stuffing them into places like sports stadiums (once again surrounded by those ever so reliable chain link fences). This plan offers up the zombie equivalent of a Las Vegas breakfast buffet. Of course, someone who is infected somehow gets inside. Once turned, the zombie bites someone which starts a chain reaction of zombie making until the stadium is filled with zombies. My guess is the end result looks a lot like a Nickelback concert (truly terrifying).
The biggest fuck up the military makes is that it fails to use is the one weapon that is totally zombie-proof, FUCKING TANKS! An Abrams tank would make short work of thousands of zombies in minutes just by RUNNING THE FUCKERS OVER! No shots need to be fired. The zombies, drawn to the noise, basically come out and ask to be plowed over. Some argue that it would be difficult to get soldiers to attack their own people and the hesitation would be disastrous. BULLSHIT! Show an army battalion footage of zombies chowing down on their neighborhoods and they'll be all in. I have a lot of confidence in our military to enthusiastically fuck shit up in an efficient and methodical way because my dad served in the Navy on an aircraft carrier for almost 20 years. In times when our country was in danger they would enthusiastically write things on missiles like, "Killing is Our Business and Business is Good." In short, our men and women in uniform may not want to put down thousands of their fellow Americans, but they'll do it and find a way to have fun at the same time.
Society Collapses
A common theme in zombie apocalyptic fiction is how society collapses when the zombies have wiped out 99% of the world's population. Basically, with no government or structure, by chapter five yesterday's accountant becomes a charismatic, post-apocalyptic warlord capable of gathering followers. With his followers, the warlord then begins a campaign of cruelty, violence, rapine, and mayhem against the average survivor. The thought here is that humanity's dark side comes out when there is no authority left to cage it in. Are you fucking serious? To emphasize how stupid this is I will use real history. Back in the dark ages Vikings would raid up and down Europe, plundering, burning, and raping but they were never able to fully gain control of those they picked on. Why? Because people at heart are generally good and NO ONE likes a bully. So, the poor peasants and local authorities would band together and eventually send the very outnumbered Vikings packing. The same applies to post-apocalyptic society. Warlords may try to rise, but they would eventually lose because people would band together and put them down.
The Hero
The protagonist(s) in zombie apocalyptic yarns also tend to fall into two categories. One a little more plausible than the other.
1. Former cop(s) or soldier(s). Of course, those familiar with weapons and tactics would be the obvious choice for the heroes of the zombie apocalypse. They also have the discipline needed to work as a cohesive unit. Although to keep them motivated you may need to make sure there is at least one donut shop left running or brothel still seeing guests. So, with motivation, these heroes make sense.
2. The average schmuck(s). The average guy(s) or girl(s) as protagonist wouldn't be too big of a stretch except for one thing. They always start out ignorant of how to defend themselves, but by chapter five they have the skill set of fucking Rambo. For example the mild mannered IT guy suddenly can expertly use all forms of weaponry and also fabricate bombs out of chewing gum, women's hygiene products, and match sticks. Now don't get me wrong, most people will adapt and adapt quickly to horrible circumstances, but the least the authors of these novels could do is make the learning curve last longer than the first hundred pages!
The Unsung Heroes: The Blue Collar Factor
One thing very absent in zombie novels is how many normal people have the knowledge needed to defend themselves and even take the offensive against the undead. Look no further than the average welder. With their skills, a welder could fabricate good defensive measures such as reinforced doors, windows, and even make improvised weapons. Even better, give a welder a bull dozer and some sheet metal and he can create an impenetrable zombie death machine. Farmers, mechanics, electricians, and construction workers also have skill sets that would make short work of undead hordes.
The Unsung Hero: Mother Nature
Many zombie novels ask us to suspend disbelief a little too much. For example, as almost universally written, zombies quickly succumb to various levels of decay. Right there you have the end to the apocalypse! Open wounds or decay would bring in the flies by the billions. The flies would then use the decay and open wounds as food source for their progeny. It may take a while, but the maggots would decimate zombies. No matter how far you allow yourself to suspend disbelief eventually you have to concede that a zombie being devoured by maggots will soon loose the muscles, tendons, and other tissues needed to move and will then be rendered harmless.
Zombies: Victims of their own Zombiehood
Okay, the last point I will make is that pretty much every zombie novel you will read will stay close to one idea. That idea is that zombies are almost always incapable of complex thought. So, it would be very easy to lure zombies to their own deaths. The sound of a motorcycle's engine would attract every zombie around. Once gathered together, you could then herd the zombies using bait into large buildings, open spaces, or areas with ways in but no way out by the thousands. These areas could then be hit by the military, fabricated explosives, fire, or Justin Bieber's Greatest Hits thus wiping them out with very little risk.
So, I am ashamed to admit it, but I have probably read thousands of pages of zombie books. I guess it's no worse than those romance novels they sell in supermarkets. Anyway, in the unlikely event that the rules of biology take a pisser and dead flesh can be reanimated with an appetite for human flesh, please consider this as a good zombie survival primer.
Groundhog Daze
Getting here, I'd say everyone misrepresents it— cinematically, I mean.
Stale air and concrete walls closed in on me earlier during processing. My autonomy was violated as they clicked cameras at me. I'm unsmiling, naked as the day I was born, and handed scratchy clothes— my identity erased and replaced with a number. The clanging keys and buzzing doors disorient, and I'm led to a sparse mini studio with lifeless grey walls. An uneven, thin cot and metal toilet welcome me. The closest thing I have to a window is the cell-bar door to the corridor, where a guard roams back and forth.
I conceded that I'd be greeted with painful shrieks and howling shouts of others echoing down the cell block, and the newbies would be seated alone, head in hands, mind racing to establish how they got there. I don't think everyone is an irrational murderer like they tell us... some people are probably feeling self-resentfully accountable for their non-violent burglary offense, tax evasions (ironic), immigration mistakes, or their ceaseless drug habits that they've tried to stop a couple of times leading up to now.
Though, I'm sure there are still plenty of inmates who are unbothered, thinking, what's a few years a pause before going back to what got me here in the first place? I would say that life before already feels so distant to the former, whenever they arrived. Friends, family, freedom, namesake— gone. For the latter, I don't think they're thinking about it, just living out this nice little vacation from the exhaustive nature of committing unlawful acts.
At the scream of a whistle, we shuffled to the dining hall, tense and silent. I stared down at whatever the 'making-school-cafeteria-lunches-look-like-a-Michelin-Star-meal' of the day was. I think guilt or indifference would come back into play here again. The inmates who knew they fucked up— though still less culpable than others, look down to avoid the glare of anyone who might see them as weak, while those who firmly and aggressively deserved their sentence had defensive eyes darting around the room, watching over their tough hides especially closely. Then, we were herded back to our cages, heads counted like preschool children after recess. This was surely emasculating for the hardened criminals.
It's difficult not to want to ask what happened to the person sharing my cell or those passing by, but I preferred not to speak if it wasn't necessary. I figured I'd get to that in a few days once I'd processed the new situation. I'm not exactly a guiltless type who fears nothing.
After hours of tedium, a bell rings for yard time and I fast blinked as I stepped into the sunlight, blinded temporarily. It was shocking and the air felt different, almost foreign, even through the chain link fences and watchtowers. Some inmates would be pacing the far end, struck by a heated argument. Others tossed a basketball around or played cards. Mostly, though, faces would be blank with boredom.
At this point, I found an empty patch of dirt to sit down in, staring at the sky, trying to reminisce about the freedom of open spaces and the warmth of a loved one’s touch. But it was a bit like recalling a dream upon waking. Too soon, the bell clanged lazily again, and everyone was lined up and counted. We trudged back inside. I had some time to myself— as myself as I could get. I wrote a bit before lights out. I didn't sleep that first night and long, dark hours stretched endlessly ahead while my cell-mate slept seemingly peacefully. He must have been here a while.
Tomorrow will be the same routine, the next day too. If Hollywood wants to show this cinematically, they'd be better off using a movie like Groundhog Day. After some monotonous days, I knew I'd simply be going through the same motions, now I'd join up with the thousand-yard starers wandering aimlessly within the walls, biding my time until release.