Zombie Burrito

Zombie Burrito

A Poem by Lambo

seated upon the cheap beige cushioned bench seat, he

uses his fingers with their chipped black nails

to insert the burrito into his salivating mouth.

the teeth remove large conglomerate

bundles of cooked beans and rice grains and raw

tomato, all of which disintegrate about

his tongue before continuing on

to his esophagus and stomach.


all morning he had thought of little but the

burrito. the burrito had been with him as he had

risen from his bluish mattress with its festive

camouflage swaddling;

as the alarm clock had projected upon

his ears its translated radio signals of

inconsequential traffic reports,

mind-searingly unmotivational Christian soft-rock jingles,

and obscenely cheerful advertisements for

uninteresting inanimate objects and undesired


as he ate his berry yogurt and the charred toast,

brushed his teeth and rode the ugly yellow bus and

worked in the library, the burrito never left his side.


later in the restaurant, as he sat

beneath the awkward tootling of the seventies'

progressive pop-rock bands that floated invisible

somewhere up in the dark black ceiling, as he sat

by the windows with their view of a quiet

suburban neighborhood with trees and cars

and clouds and a pretty fountain,

the flatbread and marinated muscle tissue and fresh cilantro

abruptly turned to ashes in his mouth. intact--he appraised--

remained the flavors,

as did the warmth of the burrito, and as did the

satisfying crispness of the various protective

layers of foil as he peeled them back

from the soft, moist surface.

the toasted texture of the light-green

tortilla also remained, and even the nature of the

salsa appeared similarly unaffected. it was not immediately clear

what cruel, invisible tragedy had befallen the burrito.


he realized upon later reflection that his burrito had

lost its very soul at the moment it had touched his lips--

for no matter how much one venerates a beautiful dream,

by the laws of existence it will soon decay into

a desolate shell of one's romantic expectations.

the burrito might have brought a tear to his eye, it is true,

but rather than a tear of deep spiritual fulfillment

it was a bitter tear of pain

because the salsa of the futile burrito had been too spicy for him.




© 2010 Lambo

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holy s**t man, this is a beautiful representation of the two-faced mask of drama itself. utterly hilarious simply because no one expects it. good job.

Posted 14 Years Ago

This really had me laughing out loud...in a good way! XD
Very original. I'm gonna read some more of your work. Haha! :]

Posted 14 Years Ago

I don't know what to say, I really enjoyed this one. The sentence structure was strange, almost seemingly immature, but the imagery and the environment you created with it was surreal and fitting to the purpose; perhaps it was intentional, on reflection.

The last stanza contained my favourite line:

"for no matter how much one venerates a beautiful dream,

by the laws of existence it will soon decay into

a desolate shell of one's romantic expectations."

This guy must have REALLY wanted that burrito. Haha.

Posted 14 Years Ago

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3 Reviews
Shelved in 1 Library
Added on May 29, 2010
Last Updated on May 29, 2010



Ashland, OR

The name is Lambo. I am creepy. I enjoy strange music, darkness, good salads, clutter, and seclusion. more..

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