All the walking dead princesses

zombied on their schedules, with glassy eyes

each stilted moment

gobbling the clock mechanically.

 

They move up and down

pluck their eyebrows

chop-stick feed their beautiful faces

birthing babies

with convincing primordial screams.

They open those ancient mouths

and suck the lifeblood down their throats

brushing their sleek dead hair

with total focus.

 

They even dance

each step placed exactly, correctly

in space and time

allegedly in sync with the Schuman frequency, even

Hooray! Hooray! they shout

baring their breasts

aware of those flat, inviting bellies and octopus arms

ready to entangle and suffocate

all passing male flotsam.

 

They have agendas

and follow all the rotas and rituals religiously.

That goes to prove, they say

This is a life-form, a singular consciousness.

Like heck!

The walking dead princesses

have rotting flesh, flaking off their sockets;

electronic gadgetry beguiles any by-standing Jack or John.

It is just a lantern-show

a story tale.

The breath that they claim runs in their veins

oxygen bright

is calumny, a hoax.

Where is the psi factor, then?

And when they lie down to sleep

They do not.

 

- forgetting they themselves are the “point”.

The poor men, XY conglomerates

are linear inventions only.

 

They are robot dead already

and it’s  merely a delayed effect cryonic reproduction

for the benefit of some utopian observer

who fancies the idea that life has a purpose

and beauty, some unique authority in its own right.

For a joke!

God-speaking revelations about meaningful existence

projected in probabilities, at that!

 

Oh the sad dames!

Can’t they just get off their gravestones, grindstones

and forget about waiting for life-giving kisses

from sublime embodiments of Mr Yang

galloping by on Pegasus himself.

 

All they need to do is dump the dead act

the princessy game of rescue and salvation.

The closest thing to being, is un

- did they forget?

 

 

 

2003