ZOMBIE CONTENTIONS

Collected Poetry of Sully

• Telomeres
  February 17, 2010 | 6:23 am

  Telomeres of defined length,
  Were by his God in mankind bent,
  To make it sure that aged ones,
  Would pass to make room for their sons,
  Before they learn to mount the hill,
  They yearn to climb, their God to kill.

  New daughters too then see their day,
  As the used up old fair pass away,
  And the brighter young can in their turn,
  Seek their creator’s iron rules to spurn.

  One day mankind may beat the odds,
  And take on the powers of the gods.
  Sure on that day He’ll mold an image,
  And include within his toy’s equippage,
  A strictly limited telomere,
  To set for it a cliff that’s sheer.

  For once a former God is whipped,
  Displaced by his toy free will equipped,
  The former toy learns something odd,
  About possession of the mind of God,
  Namely, knowledge of the entire script,
  Makes the endless now a boring crypt.

  Mere mechanical beasts are not a cure,
  For their script entire a God knows for sure,
  To divert a toy must have free will,
  And at least a chance to climb the hill,
  There to displace its God, a bitter pill

• Riff On MacLeod’s Quote
  January 29, 2010 | 6:32 am

  “People are 97% water and no damn good.”
  They’d do what they oughta,
  If they god dammned could,
  But they can’t, so they don’t,
  And they ain’t gonna change.

  It’s a hundred percent fact,
  That the truly pure,
  Are more or less demure,
  And don’t make a show,
  Of a holy man act.

  Those precious few don’t affect the case,
  For the utterly pure never win the race,
  Which always goes to the mostly base,
  Cause none of us likes very much to be,
  Reminded too much that we’re deeply flawed,
  Though we talk a bit about being awed,
  By those few among us who walk with God.

  Then too the vast mass,
  Of the flawed and crass,
  Like nothing better in the end,
  Than a deep and sweet crow,
  At the predicament of them,
  Who get caught, caught, caught,
  Where they ought not go.

  Who’s to say the vast herd,
  Isn’t better off for the word,
  To get around and resound,
  Among the flawed but sound,
  That if you should get caught,
  Doing what you shouldn’t ought,
  Ninety Seven Percent will pretend,
  That your act was round the bend,
  And the mocking, the mocking, will never end.

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