zombies, the ones who party in the graveyard, dance on the tombstones, smoke joints and laugh about the grotesqueness of war and, well, life. . . swinging their banners and tooting their horns, spraying blood and gore. . .it’s always Halloween, a dark, moonless night. . .but they light it up and take us all down. . .riding into conflict, knights at a jousting match, empty hearts soaring, shouting profanities. . .there is no rescue of the damsel in distress. . .
Who said Halloween was over? I haven’t gotten to wear a costume for a while, so I’m taking it out on paper and it feels so good. Not a particularly scary zombie, but then I was in the delightful company of the Tuesday Evening Muses and safe enough to open up the graveyard box and let some dark spirits out.
The text, from my favorite antique book “Illustrated Travels” – too small to read – says “The blade, sharp at the point as a needle. . .the whole affair rather looks like the uncouth weapon of some scalping, weasand-slitting, stomach-ripping savage. . .” seemed to fit. Weasand is “throat”. I looked it up. So now I hope I didn’t give you nightmares.