On the first day of my Writing the Undead class, we ripped pages out of a cheesy zombie novel—”Ghoul” by Brian Keene—and used the words to make poetry. From pages 83,84,241, and 242 I took parts of sentences and put them together to form a bad poem; I thought I’d share it anyways.
The thing was a ghoul,
not by the ghoul’s standards—
a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey
like a shark through water,
lit a cigarette like a hive of enraged bees
he was Han Solo, Barry’s father.
Ka-chunk like a monstrous, enraged pig—
Silence after the sigil
that hunger gnawed
nearly two centuries since, one
hundred years, maybe a handful
more. It was lovely. It was
angry. It was a ghoul,
not by ghoul’s standards.