Separate & Succinct, Disparate & Distinct by Bill Snider
Separate and Succinct, Disparate and Distinct by Bill Snider
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-927580-45-5
Editor: Jodi Lee
Publisher: Needfire Poetry
Dimensions: 5.25 x 8
Cover Price: $10.00
Order Direct: Createspace
E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-927580-46-2
Formats: html, js, mobi, epub, pdf, rtf, lrf, pdb, txt
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-927580-47-9
Coming soon to Nook, Kobo, and iBook.
Separate and Succinct, Disparate and Distinct – a collection of bits and pieces of Bill Snider’s weird mind splattered onto the page. He warns that one must read with care, for the depths of his mind are shallow, entranced, bewitched by shadows and happenstance…
What they’re saying about Separate and Succinct, Disparate and Distinct:
“From frightfully fun to darkly contemplative, Bill (aka ZZ)’s latest poetic excursions take us to the far reaches of imagination as well as deep inside ourselves.”
– David Dunwoody, author of Dark Entities and The Harvest Cycle
Mangled and tangled, marooned and festooned
Capped by a fish, strung out on a wish,
Harpooned by a seal, without any zeal
I am the walrus, I stand to the what may be sought,
There is more ice here, than where once stood a lot.
High upon the mountainside, there lives such a one,
An evil old soul, decrepit and bereft.
He’ll gut you as soon as serve you a muffin
And your skin he’ll wear for slippers
But most importantly, always mind your manners
Or he’ll also serve you with kippers!
Bangers and mash, bangers and mash
Carrying on without refrain or grey trash.
The sky is turning purple, as the rain fades to mist
It’s the way these things go, from cell to cell to cyst.
I am the walrus, or so you might be taught
It’s what brews in my mind, a sickness, a rot;
An ancient ill, festering and cold
Sick with the stories, not all of them told
Of the shadowy beast, that uses old souls
To ferret out prized pieces, of the rarest of gold.
Pretty, pretty, bang, bang, kiss, kiss.
What song, what dance, what is this?
What fear, what dream, what scream is this?
What blade, what fire, what zeal is this?
Tis the edge of sanity, and one step beyond
I push myself past, the fears I abscond.
Take another look at me, see what I am
I am determined, I am soot, I am death
I am the tortured soul’s foulest last breath.
Speak, one word, one last thought
I will allow it, for the cookies you’ve brought.
No manner of creature forsworn, or forsooth
Shall empty their pockets without a good word.
And in buckets, shall I repay thee, for misdeed so wrought
For in truth, I care only, for the cookies you’ve brought.
Bill Snider (aka Zombie Zak), a (mostly) humble creature of the night, the dead and things best left with the Bright. From the frozen wastes of Toronto, Canada, sprung from the shadow wrought, he walks between whispers and thought.
Shambler of the Night, engineer of bubblicious blight; a deadpan desire for total and complete global domination sincere, is attempting to compile something bouncy and maybe not all here. Legions cover the planet from pole to pole, nothing mediocre you see, nothing quite so droll.
Cookies, brains, bacon and zombies, oh my! Forsooth and gadzooks, you’re all going to buy. By word, by rhythm, something unseen, I leave you with these words pretty, but unclean. Wrap up your bubbles, your unkempt asides; for tonight, we read, imagination we ride! Waves of rhythm and rhyme, the bright, the simple, the sublime.
Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly…