Herd – A Poem

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.

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