I Brought A Zombie Back to Life Today, by Thomas Dean

I brought a zombie back to life today.

Once the rot congealed I bought her a drink

And asked her what it was like on the other side


She said she missed the sick slick spit of sputum

Falling unopposed down the back of her throat

Down and out like a drainpipe over an endless moving sidewalk


Towards graveyards where their buried cousins lay underground

With her 10,000 brothers—she used to have a name—

They all used to have names…


Draining her jack and coke she crooked her head to me


Our tribute to Thomas Dean continues next Monday with: “Nana’s Closing Breath.”

Wait For Me ‘Til Midnight, by Thomas Dean

The last bell shall ring at midnight

And at this moment, what was and what will be

Will crash together

In perfect harmony.

The Earth will bend,

The ground will shake;

But don’t  forget

The promise you made.

Wait for me

When midnight comes,

Or I’ll divulge

One thousand suns,

And light the sky,

And burn the ground!

So wait for me

‘Til the bell’s last sound.

Our tribute to Thomas Dean continues next Monday with: “I Brought A Zombie Back to Life Today.”

Immortal, by Thomas Dean

Stop the world, or let it spin.

It is of no difference to me,

For I am not of the earth, nor the wind, nor the sky.

I am of the soul.

Biographical Note, by Susan Dean

“My son, Thomas Dean, was born October 25, 1992. He studied at The State University of New York at Fredonia, in Fredonia, New York, where he was a senior English major with a minor in Creative Writing. His intentions after graduation were to be a published author and an English professor. He was a unique, complicated, and creative young man.

His writing ranged from being dark and deep, to being light hearted, humorous, and emotional. He was the type to light up a room with his humor and was always unashamedly himself. This was a unique trait of his that was complemented by his refusal to conform to what the world, and others, thought he should be. In addition to writing, he enjoyed making movies, uploading them online and through it entertaining himself, his friends, and many others. He had further ambitions of travelling to places such as England, and visiting Korea to reconnect with many friends from there who he had met on campus. He was in perfect health before the time of his passing, so his death was a shock to all who knew and loved him. He died of a rare condition called Lymphocytic Myocarditis one week after his 21st birthday, on November 2, 2013.

Following my son’s death we have set up the Thomas Dean Memorial Fund at SUNY Fredonia, in order to help other young people fulfill their college dreams. A book by and about Thom, called: Immortal: The Life and Legacy of Thomas Dean, will be available for purchase on Amazon in late May, with proceeds from sales of the book going to the fund.

Thomas was a wonderful man, and my world has become a darker place without him, but we are grateful to him for leaving his writing behind, which I intend to share with as many people as possible. 

I hope that here, you will enjoy his poetry and by doing so, ensure that his spirit continues to live on through his words.”

Susan Dean

Thomas Dean’s work will appear on inkposts throughout April.

The Driver

The Driver (1978)Director and Writer: Walter Hill. Cast: Ryan O’Neal, Bruce Dern, Isabelle Adjani. Studio: Canal. Release date: 1978

Car chases, bank robberies, and cold stares make up the majority of this cult classic. The Driver, played by Ryan O’Neal, is a cool, calm, and collected wheel man for hire who says more with his stare than he does with his words. Continue reading

The La’s – There She Goes

After writing for inkposts, Carl Loft tells us what he listens to:

“I love this tune because of the acoustic harmonies. . . Lee Mavers voice is perfect for the rhythm, and for a song about heroin it sure cheers me up in the morning.”

Putting Words Together, by Carl Loftus

First off, let me say I am not going to talk about the beliefs on how writing poetry is accomplished, but simply around the contemporary politics and reasons, why no one seems interested anymore. We are a dying art; pop culture has elevated us and isolated us, a weird cross road that seems more emphasised than ever. Continue reading

Accident & Emergency

I’ve seen the clock on the wall in front of me go full circle twice now, and heard nothing but low whispers, names being called, and a girl behind me giggle on the phone as she told someone she had nearly ruined her liver. There’s no music, radio, or magazines. It’s been Hospital Floor Gang Wide Very Long Warnschild E2 by Stuxthe smallest details around me that have kept my head from nodding and my eyes from shutting; one woman a couple rows ahead has been whispering in her partners ear, but I haven’t seen him respond once. A man a few seats away from me repeatedly clenches and unclenches his fists, which are tattooed in marks of recent violence. I can’t help but think he makes the boy with his arm in a sling on the opposite row appear wimpy. I’m here because a couple hours before I was on all fours coughing, and holding my chest. At first I told myself it was nothing until I fell into a choking fit that wouldn’t stop. I only decided to call a hospital after I began to notice red in the saliva hanging from my mouth. I’m ashamed to admit it, but my eyes even had streams running from them. So here I am in urgent need of help, but I refuse to look it. Instead I lean back in my seat with my arms folded, and patiently wait to be seen.

Tom Vek – Nothing But Green Lights

After writing for inkposts, Brett Hackett Tells us what he listens to:

“I enjoy this song because of the memory I link it to. Slightly drunk at a bar in the early hours of the morning, and it made me think about my life up to that point. Where I was and where I was going. Music is good to remind you of a place and time and that’s what this song does to me.”

Words = Ash, by Brett Hackett

Keep finding it in the
the tingle of warmth
at the end of the paper skin
the fire spits and crackles

and for a little while
I feel balance,
after I let go of my fear
is this rebellion?

Let me know,
I’m ready
what have you got?

One summer is all I need
before harvest comes
pull up, you’ll be fine,
take a drag              is that what they say?
Better than being a pusher – smoke a joint with Miley Cyrus

Short Bio: Brett Hackett is a student of Creative Writing at Edge Hill university who thinks of himself as a professional cynic, which sometimes gets in the way of him being a full-time romantic. He is interested in writing full time.


It’s that big I can hear its wings beating as they carry its thick body around my room. Occasionally it feigns attacking me, pushing me into a corner. It’s laughing at Moth, Cloth, by Leksme. The  laugh of a sadistic bug that enjoys making a man a prisoner in his own living space. I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes and I’ve hardly blinked, too scared to move. I’m fucking sick of it, tired of cowering away from these butt faced butterflies gone wrong. Today it all changes. I’m taking my life and my bedroom back. No short cuts, no dishonourable attacks with the vacuum cleaner when its back is turned, and no opening the window waiting for it to leave on its own terms, just my bare hands.

I wait until its stationary, sitting on my light shade watching me. Then, I attack. In the following assault my room becomes a mess and it flees in an erratic manner. Zigzagging around me but eventually, I feel its pain when my knuckles blend it with the plaster of my wall.