Yeah, that’s me, the good-looking zombie in front of the burning Volvo, glancing wistfully | out of shot | the other zombies milling around in classic fashion | with their I-support-Man-Utd expression | all the go of a vacant parking space | no cuckoo in their cuckoo clocks | and the sky behind the filling station | a saturated klein blue | its imperious yet trashy power | lost on everyone | Very little facial decay | skin really good, if pale | I know I’m drooling a bit, but still | my clothes are quite neat | and I have the intense but fretful air | of an ardent teenager | despite the fact my brain is just rabid soup | don’t I remind you | of a young man who is too absorbed | by a quasi-quantum-romantic entanglement | and is worried he’s missed the train | that was to take him to a tryst with his possibly hopefully maybe probably not at least from her side but definitely totally I think from my side | belovéd | to register in a substantial way | the apocalypse that has exploded the whole neighbourhood | and derailed said train | in such a reverie | the stream of ignited petrol flaming in a zoom | across the foreground | is of less concern to me | than the efficacy of the deodorant I’m wearing | or whether the scent of my Hunk aftershave | is quite as powerful as those people on the tube | seemed to be implying | unimportant problems, you might say | but of the type we cherished | before the virus fell like transparent snow | from that random asteroid in outer space | and we somehow started to get shot in the head a lot | and then wake up | and we somehow began to forget | to go to work or pay the rent | or have sex or, in my case, not have sex | or even to think about sex or | not having sex | and so on | and not | on | Anyway, Man Utd are the greatest | and I hear in fact that you can buy love | so | the song was wrong | who’d have thought it? | Now I really want to go shopping | and as I go shopping I kind of notice | a woman sitting at an overturned café table | with headline-grave newspapers blowing around her, and some guy with a terrible injury to his neck | lying to her left, a discarded notebook growing increasingly irrelevant, at a frightening speed, and his copy of | Jean-Paul Sartre’s Critique de la raison dialectique | flying like a rapidly failing species of bird | towards extinction | towards what might be called, paradoxically, a utopian malaise | a getting elsewhere quick | when I realise | I find the woman oddly attractive | not erotic exactly but | no, yes, she does actually exude quite an erotic charge | perhaps it’s the skull peeping out through the gash in her hair | or the blank melancholia of her gaze | into nothing | like a bored travel agent | having to sell another fabulous holiday