As part of a writing exercise a few years back I wrote the following. The exercise was to write something where each line used the next letter of the alphabet. It’s not a poem, really, because it has no meter or whatever it is poems have.
At the start it was just another minor medical news story.
But then I saw a man in the alley behind Tara’s Organic Foods.
Clutching a cat in his hands, he chomped on it like a burger.
Dumbfounded I watched until he’d had his fill.
Eyes turned on me and he sprinted, blood spraying from his lips.
Five days later the police shot him as he dined on a doberman.
Good news, the doctors told me, you can return to work.
Health care officials stream past my office in panel vans.
I’m told it’s nothing when I ask, nothing to worry about.
Just keep your nose down (and on your face).
Killings continue, more pets and then an old man named Gus.
Loner, outcast, found under the train trestle, no pics please.
More health care officials in their vans, DO NOT WORRY.
No suspect yet but we have leads, we have leads.
On the tenth day a woman is found on the street.
Painted on the pavement in her own blood.
Questioning a health official, I am pushed away.
Reassurances are made but I recognize the fear.
Safety will not be found here anymore.
Taking an hour, I pack what I need, my survival kit.
Under one arm I cradle a gun I just bought.
Veiled eyes follow as I go to my car.
Watching as I drive away.
X-rays revealed nothing at the time.
Yet I cannot deny the events behind Tara’s.
Zombies have come and I’m in the mood for brains.
When I next post about this (take two) it will be after I’ve turned this a poem. I expect it to be wretched, perhaps gloriously so.
Soon™.
