Lament for the death of the Zombie King
I know how it really went down: his flowered crown
had wilted badly in the moonlight. Such a shame,
really. He was such an impressive specimen despite
his pupil-less eyes, and lack of the usual social graces.
Personally, I will miss, most of all,
his penis, rotting away it's true
but so uplifting. Some say he was
circumcised as an adult, but I believe he let
nature take its fragile course.
Not that the sex was great, or anything.
He had difficulties focusing on the task
at hand, perhaps because his hand
wasn't his own to control, but still his charm
made up for his deficiencies in -- what's the word?
Performance. That's it. And he did try as well
as anyone similarly situated could. Besides
I was drawn by more than just his sheer animal
magnetism, if you must know. It was his voice
or the absence thereof. Such beauty in silence
I've never experienced before. Imagine, then
my surprise when finally he uttered what proved
to be his final word to me, only last week, but
already an eternity ago subjectively speaking.
Just the word: "Platypus" and then he stopped
moving for good. And I thought it was a joke,
you know, some sort of April Fools' gag, but his arms
fell to his side like hydraulic lifts when the fluid runs
out: slow and a bit squeaky as they descended.
I tried mouth to mouth, but his lips prevented
a good seal, and breathing was never
one of his strong suits. So, yes, I cried for a bit,
I'm not ashamed to admit it. Love is hard to find,
and a soul mate? You can answer that question
as well as I. Still, I can't help wondering
if somewhere, someday, we'll meet again
in a better world, one without the obligatory
stares and fearful looks, where two people can live
out their dream without regard to what animals
might come between them. Especially the slugs
which, I confess, I found hard to explain
to friends and family, both. Not that they
weren't cute, in a slimy sort of way, once you
got used to the smell. I used garlic and butter
to fry them up, when they got to be too much
to bear. Escargot without the shell, I told him,
and I swear, I almost saw a hint of a smile.
But that's me, trying to remember the good times
because I'm just an optimist, at heart. And what
else do you expect? Losing a lover
is always hard, hardest on the one left behind
with only her unfulfilled dreams to keep her warm
at night. Which by the way, is still when
I think of him the most; in the long hours before dawn
his friends all around, all their arms outstretched,
reaching to God, or whatever strange call they heard
as they carried me along, part of their festive swarm,
more happy, more alive, than I've ever been
before or since. And always, always, following
his lead, one step at a time, into the gloom.