Zombie Strippers
There must be a moral and a story
buried somewhere beneath all that
hideous makeup. An unfortunate,
small, random sampling of mid-
movie scenes, suggest there were
not enough letters in the alphabet
to downgrade it, sort of like grade Z
minus sigma nu rating on Rotten Tomatoes.
Why anyone, even a pudgy dweeb,
a past it, studly and well-dressed black
man, who way should have known better,
could find these scantily clad, barely able
to ambulate, ghoul faced hags, hot, was
beyond comprehension. As was all three
of them accepting back stage invitations
to be objects of some kind of gory lap dance,
movable feast. But this was not the kind of
of movie that allowed for questions about
faulty logic, plot consistency or deep
emotional commitments. Consulting
summary of movie during ads revealed
little other than the star was a porn actress
of some repute, once upon a time, known
for her talents on screen not generally
confused with Art.
Maybe this was
the kind of feature where past-it sex
stars went to revive their flagging careers
forever, recruiting new flesh as they worked
in a never-say-die-kind-of way.
The unanswered question of substance must be,
do breast implants matter in Zombieland?
Animatronic Men
Lurk, unobserved in late night
shadows, savvy as contract killers,
biding their time on the edge of
restive crowds, circuits overloaded
like a class picnic for children of
the damned, charged on Ritalin,
all of them singing Talking Heads songs
in synch, burning down the house
with their eyes creating a new kind
of disco inferno, oh those body
snatcher lips and those soul sucking
mouths hungry for more, more, more,
all the while those animatronic men
laugh, oh, how they laugh.
The Conga Line from Hell
There they are the revelers
wearing cheap conical hats,
bearing breath-controlled,
retractable whistles, metal
noise makers they all employ
at once as an ear drumming assault,
all in the name of dressing up
in new frocks and suits to
consume vast amounts of legal
beverages and other kinds of
mind altering chemicals,
driven to become adherents
of Nietzsche’s “everything is
permitted” edict, all rules
abolished once partying begins,
all sense of propriety forgotten,
unlikely liaisons formed in back
room office space, hotel storage
closets, under banquet tables cloaked
in white linens as if some merry
musician, band leader, had declared,
“Let the humping begin!”
Background music becomes the refined
crude that fuels the savage beast,
that suggests otherwise responsible
adults form a line alternating men
and women , grab the waist of
the humanoid in front of you and
let the dance begin, let this hydra
headed millipede begin unrestrained
kicking anything within its path to
jungle fever music, all the faces
wide eyes and lust crazed, mindless
as a herd of headless chickens,
all of them slaves to the hypnotic
beat, following the command of
a pied-piper-with-a-drum music man,
that bandleader of the doomed
exhorting the dancers to kick,
kick, kick until they drop, spineless
and spent in dark, unfamiliar place,
dead to the world.
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