It does exist and has been anthologised in this book, Aim for the Head. Last week we had a bit of a love-in with a little something vampire. Frankly, it’s easy to figure out why vampires have had their time in the sun and cornered the market on literary cachet for all things undead. They are seductive. Zombie’s however…well, they are zombies! Rotting flesh, gouged out eyes, spilling guts, no personalities…somehow I can’t see a Twilight style saga being made about them. No, they ain’t the stuff romance is made of.
In poetry, much like the movies, the zombie has been used as a trope to consider blind consumerism, racism and rabid mindlessness. I’m thinking of films like 28 Days Later, Dawn of the Dead and Blade. Humour too has been the preserve of the zombie – let’s not forget how many funny films have animated the zombie to great effect. Shawn of the Dead, anyone. Aim for the Head wants to redress the balance, making the zombie stand (pun intentional) on its on two feet.
I can’t see myself writing any zombie films just yet but never say never, eh? But if this kind of thing is your bag, The New York Times has this write up.
And if your craving for viscera and brains still remains insatiable after that, Tom Beckett has written a Little Book of Zombie Poems which can be consumed in one easy sitting. And the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has got in on the act, with a fun way of teaching about disease and prevention in a comic novella about what emergency measures to take during a zombie apocalypse.
Tears in the Fence 
From a Zombie to his Lady Love
My flaky skinned darling, my rot scented girl,
you rattle my brain pan by being so cold.
My curdled old heart zings, my fingerbones curl
til they break when you stir my green, slimey mold.
You’re the hole in my eyeball, the gunk in my lesion,
you’re my only reason for being undead.
My yearning for you makes me want greater cohesion;
I want to hold you tight in my wormy bed.
O come with me now to the site of our passion,
where we lay down to watch the lunar eclipse.
The vault waits for us with layers of soft ash on
where, last time, we left my cock and your lips.