Rocko Zombie

Rocko Zombie

Rocko is a zombie
Who really loves brains,
He uses them to make things
Like mini brain-trains,
And Brain-doh
Which is like Play-doh with veins,
He uses them to remove stubborn stains
And relieve aches and pains,
Uses them to impress zombie dames
And for bowling ball at the lanes,
Well you get the point…

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Oh, Gods of Poetry!

Oh, Gods of Poetry!
Is there any Poe in me?
Is there any truth that I can say?
Imaginings as the curtains sway?

Scribbles in a bent-paged notebook,
Drunk on dandelion wine,
Secret meeting in a darkened nook,
Glowing with the absinthe shine

A shadow cast on dying grass
That youth of lore was never mine
The sudden death of a friend
A torment lived only in my mind

Oh, Gods of Poetry!
Hast thou passed me beyond when words had meaning?
Thrust into the age of a billion voices,
simultaneously streaming

Will mine be heard,
a whisper or a roar?
Or pass unnoticed,
a heartbeat underneath the floor?

Where is my haunted castle,
my Lenore or my Bernice?
Midnight’s filled with ghostly battles,
or the crushing ocean to cease my peace?

If I should find the will to write,
should it be on somber stormy night?
Should I type it in my mobile phone,
or an ancient typewriter in my room alone?

Oh, Gods of Poetry!
Whilst thee answer me?
In Old English, can I slay my dragons,
amidst gentlemen in horse drawn wagons?

Why hast thou put me in this place,
this time puts me, my mind to waste?

My heart in cuffs
My pen is dull
My soul rebuffs
Blank is my skull

My heart in cuffs
My pen is dull
My soul rebuffs
Blank is my skull

My heart in cuffs
My pen is dull
My soul rebuffs
Blank is my skull


Poem is mine. Image is not.