no Irish

I'm surrounded by grey sky and ground but a horizon is hardly distinguishable.

There's whistling but no wind to carry the tune.

I hear it all around me.

The sound isn't shrill or particularly sure of itself.

Something that looks like the Rolling Stones mouth and tongue logo materializes in the distance.

The whistling mouth licks its lips and advances towards me.

Its monstrous size becomes more evident as it draws near.

Piss leaks down my legs onto the floor.

Don't laugh.


This had been a city street like any other city street in fact quite a shitty street with buildings looking like used toilet paper and crumpled cups scattered from a trash can while no other bodies linger to contribute to the pervading stink.

Cars parked their asses like good little children of god in single file waiting to guzzle their communion blood and bodies of christs yes scrawny and ragged cross-bearers with their goofy looking neckties just dying for each other's sins every day working several jobs with no insured benefit driven only by their own immaculate conceptions of youth and orgasmic longevity,

now scraping pennies from bottoms of cup-holders.

Christs haven't come back but everything around has retracted into the ground like a cuckoo into his clock.


I've got nowhere to run.

Look, this isn't funny.

The mouth belches like a toilet just done swallowing a near two-flusher.

It smells much the same.

“Rape! Murder! It's just a shot away!” it eructs/instructs.

It recedes into the background and disappears.


I thought I was gonna get gobbled up there for a minute but the city is alive yes the buildings are back like adult teeth coming up through kids' gums cuckoo cuckoo.

“Waah waah mama” cry diapers soiled and sniveling from every nook and cranny some of them piled high like little mountains on street corners where even street lights turn up their noses and tear up oh it's ridiculous.

I look around and see the “Jesus Christ!”s and “Learn how to drive, asshole!”s and it becomes more evident than it already was as they shuffle and jostle each other but not loose from their routines stopping only for coffee at Starbucks on some otherwise bare corner where acorns knocked from their trees get stabbed and bleed out night after night to a grey horizon with no janitor to sweep up the trash but maybe a De Niro circa “Taxi Driver” now and then.

“You talkin' to me?”

Babies bawl and bawl, shrill wails reaching out for reassuring mothers' coos.

This, my friends, is the zombie apocalypse.

Take a deep – oh SHIII