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wake up call from the zombies 

a new morning to listen 
while they wail like babies
with canker sores on their assholes.
 
	they want 
	to get together in a sweaty apartment,
	to jerk off their egos
	and shoot smack
	over the milkyway.  
	when they run out of that 
	a fresh can of rubber cement,
	a sandwich bag.
and you
	can do the math
	at how many 
	real life encounters
	any of them have had,
	living over a type writer,
	thinking they are on to something novel.