(05) the wheel of fortune | a zombie tarot deck


surrealist necrophiliac zombie poetry. fuck self-censorship.

number 10, strapped cleanly to the wheel. her rictus grin
says, who the fuck needs dentists. more sitting duck
than game of chance, she puts the fiancé in defiance,
i.e., even on pain of mortal death, her cadaver’s hips still
angled for your pleasure’s view. dead but still ready for
a screw. this is how you know she loves you.

your half-wilted hard-on like a corsage in the heat.
knives like roses lobbed at her freshly-rotting corpse.
doesn’t decomposition keep you warm? is falling apart
an exothermic endeavour? this is how you know she
wants it. (she’d be stiff and cold otherwise.) good girls
rigor mortis. the others are slick and grotesque. they
yield easily, like meat that’s been out a few days;

they’re so needy bits of them
cling to your fingers.

the endless thrum of life is best illustrated with a
stolen body from the morgue tied spread-eagled
across a slow-spinning target, slow enough to take in
all the charms of her limp-dangled form. you can’t
help it. you Love Women. your gaze engrossed in
her a tangible corporeal mass of matter that’s recently
lost its status as entity. we are never so naked as when
we are laid out on the slab. you wonder why so many
pin-up girls are missing that grey tinge to their skin.

outside the rising chants of the throat singers have
culminated in a single-note howl that mourns the
dearth of good music solos. you wonder if it is possible
to wail in key. the concentric circles framing number
10 are strangely erotic: blood red. semen white. the
crimson of slaughter. the pale swath of surrender. bulls-
eyes are much like g-spots but less tricky to hit. you
think of concentric circles of flesh and miss your aim.
a cascade of roaches bursts out of the beloved’s chest
and scurries away.

you want her / you love her / and you didn’t manage
to nail her: but two out of three ain’t bad, says that singer
with the name of a culinary travesty. you look for the
manager but he’s been replaced by a dark stain spreading on
the far wall that’s vaguely reminiscent of a silhouetted
strangler fig. you are just realising the powdered lines on the
countertop are not cocaine but salt, and look up just in time
to see the ceiling looking back at you so far across the fabric
of time that it causes dread to curdle in the pit of your
mouth. you become convinced that your body is not your
own. somewhere in another reality your horrified peripherals
dimly perceive number 10 turning her head. she widens

her jaw to speak
and yours

tumbles off.


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