Friend in an Infested Well

well-dwelling zombies are hella well-felt
in unlit head-splitting
cold, wet blood-spitting
bed-ridden dead heads
like ours

like a stone turns
or a typist kerns
or a poet yearns,
our facebook requests
for mistook unrests
are ingrained refrains
in collective brains
of unconscious pains.

so should we be honest
and hereby should promise
to eat, drink and sleep on it
before posting brain-vomit?

hell no!
but perhaps we aspire
to heights somewhat higher
than that of ephemeral,
shallowly temporal
spew.

in which case,
you may have my shotgun
and maybe my rope
to escape from your hell-well
and maybe to cope
with a Friday unfunny.
or maybe my tummy
is too full of my rummy
to not overthink
an untoasted post for a friend.

well, that sounds like an end.
so, here's to a friend
devoured by zombies
an unseemly end.

You've got to have patience & all well-timed shots, sir.
Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes!
Your bullets run out and your chainsaws are lies!
I kill with katanas and Jack Daniels shots, sir.
The last one inside of the fallout shelter dies!
good night,
and sleep tight,
and don't let the undead
bite without a fight.