The plastic people run, screaming
like seals at the sight of clubs.
All the pretty nightclub lights blink
and flicker, a miles long discotheque
bloodbath as the hungry dead
stalk the sunset beach of Miami.
But the dead remain famished,
their need for warm flesh
unfulfilled, a stampede of impotent desire.
Turns out the undead
can’t stomach botox
or enhanced flesh.
One envies their digestive discomfort.
