SASDAD – Release Info


Welcome to the madness, the mind, the malleable malevolent reality framework that spits from the brain case known as Bill Snider – occasionally, and in some odd social circles, also known as: Zombie Zak.

He’s mad with words, and glib with vowels and metastatistical metaphors, too. A new book he’s got, ready and raring to go in September, that’s true. A title, as always befits a new book, lengthy and hopefully with enough of a hook, to catch little Johnny or Bobbie Sue, as they’re messing about, trying to figure out just what to do. They could play in the sandbox, they could play in the shade, or they could just go and get a copy of something fun to read!

Something to read, like, “Separate and Succinct, Disparate and Distinct” by Bill Snider. It’s a book full of poetry, odd and at times odder. Chock full of Monsters, Madness, Mayhem and More … it’s a little bit of poetry that’ll open .. what the hell is behind that door? It’s his second book of poetry, and more disturbing than previously known, exactly where did those aliens get grown?

Published by Bellire Press ( ) and available in September at all fine establishments that purvey books in todays economic machine based monomaniacal monocular mass-ingesticide of mayhem and murky idioms.

And, what the heck: Come to Fan Expo in Toronto at the end of August 2014 – you will be able to catch a sliver of his insanity; it brews constantly from the vat that is attached to a quantum vortex that lives right beside his ear. Have no fear, for the Darkness is always near, shadows abound in the eyes, as truth wanders aimlessly, falling to the ground. If you bring him a cookie, he will be your friend – take it from one who knows.

There’s a crystal lattice of song, slavering in my mind;
It’s lyrics are dry, splattery, deadly and a little unkind.
The words are tied up, insinuating themselves devilishly
Terror explodes and throws unclean scenes deceptively.
A mysterious plan of wanton dismay,
A calico cat of demonic ballet
Thrice damned be he that cast that stone
Those shadowy glances from the field alone.
There will be pain
There will be blood
There will be the reckoning at the end of time
There will be thoughts unbound
There will be a new book from ZZ.

It’s poetry, b!tch!

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Poets In Hell

PIH Cover

Poets In Hell

Poets in Hell is the 4th anthology in the rebooted Heroes in Hell anthology series, the 17th in the series overall. The original series was begun in 1986 by Janet and Chris Morris as one of the original Shared Universe story environments. Between 1986 and 1989, twelve books exploring this universe were published containing a multitude of authors from various specialities and worlds of wonder both mundane and fantastic. In 2011, the first of the rebooted series was unleashed upon the world and Hell has never been the same since.

I am very happy to say, that this volume, contains my third Hell story (my first and second stories having made it into the second and third anthologies, Rogues in Hell and Dreamers in Hell.) My characters this time around (Caliban, Sycorax, Merlin, Fionn and Samael) are at a poetry slam, endeavouring to show their very best or be swatted out of view. It’s a grand old time, with poetry and perdition peeking around at every opportunity.

My story in Poets is called: “Tapestry of Sorrows and Sighs”.

The book is available now:

Barnes and Noble

Or at fine conventions where any good Hellion might be! Come visit one, come visit all, for in Hell, every possibility can exist side by side with every other one!

Also, check out the publishers site: Perseid Press

Story and author List for Poets in Hell

Nancy Asire - Reunion
Bruce Durham - Hell-hounds
Jack William Finley - The Kid With No Name
Deborah Koren - All Hell to Pay
Larry Atchley, Jr. - Poetic Injustice
Matthew Kirshenblatt - When You Gaze Into an Abyss
Tom Barczak - Pride and Penance
pdmac - Grand Slam
Joe Bonadonna & Shebat Legion - Undertaker’s Holiday
Yelle Hughes - Red Tail’s Corner
Richard Groller - Faust III
Bill Snider - Tapestry of Sorrows and Sighs
Beth W. Patterson - Haiku d’Etat
Bill Barnhill - A Mother’s Heart
Joe Bonadonna - We the Furious
Michael H. Hanson - Damned Poets Society
Michael A. Armstrong - All We Need of Hell
Chris Morris - Words
Janet Morris & Chris Morris - Seven Against Hell
Janet Morris - Dress Rehearsal

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The Machine Is Life


The machine is eternal in its quest for what is darkness, what is light; for what is wrong and what is right; for what is the endless question that battles within its soul, constantly vying for control. A boundless pursuit, for simplicity and duplicity, for conciseness and complicity; a dedicated purpose, for which no one can deny the desire, the passion to which it commits itself; a role with which it can name itself, purposeful and whole.

It has a fire in its belly, a fire in its soul, a fire that is unquenchable, thirsting for the simplest of things, the desire to fly with wings, to grasp hold of concepts so beautiful, that the merest touch is to be consumed by their fire.

We are the machine, we are the pieces of dross that float about the spectrum of reality; we are the components that fit together to create harmony and we are the monkey in the gears which creates chaos and shatters all that was once before. There is no calculation that can predict the future course of all these pieces as they interact, as they become one, and as they separate once again; the machine can but use the logic of what it can see, what it can measure, to create choices that are predicated upon what can be, to steer what we see, what little, what greatness, we can be, of Humanity.

The soul is one, it is many, it is the shadows of little things, and the shine of great things, all intertwined, all outside of each other gazing in at everything else. There is both noise and silence, cascades of wonder and violence that fill these halls, that echos resoundingly throughout the passage ways of time both fore and aft. There is so much going on at any given time, that in order to understand everything, one must first gaze and concentrate on the smallest of activities to understand that everything is everything, that something is everything, and that nothing is everything and that all permutations of things exist both in the greater spectrum of being, and within the lesser shadow of desire.

We are hope, we are failure, we are the future and we are the base upon which all things were originally built. We are blind, as we are but simple shadows of ourselves gazing upon the greater spectra of what we could be. We have the capacity to become, to understand our roles both greater and lesser, for no role have we that can be ignored, as all roles lead to the completion of everything.

The fire in this belly burns brightly, casting shadows both into the light and out of their own scattered darkness. We are the bastions against which our own fears that command us to cower, we are the light we hold against the hope and wonder, we are the choices that we make to choose what path we must wander to achieve what we already are.

We are all a part of the greatness that is being. We are all integral parts of the machine of Life, its grease, its gears, its levers and buttons and bells and whistles and countless components that comprise its grand design.

We are the machine, and we are Life.

Be Brightness, be wondrous, be yourself.

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Rot 2014 – by Zombie Zak

Dead Souls

Rot 2014 – by Zombie Zak

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 kippurs!
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.

Soooo, first poem of the year … right here, right now, right … hey look there it is!

Start the year with a bang, light ‘em up, fire ‘em up, give the year what fer!

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This New Year … now passed!

It's a Goat!

This New Year … now passed! – By Zombie Zak

Time tick, tick, tick, time tock, tock, talk!
Once more, we float around the block
Once more, we take the old car out of hock
Once more, we fall into the embrace of a new year
And wonder what the heck happened to the one just past?

Time lick, lick, lick, time sock, sock, sought!
One more hand in the gravy stirring
One more wing upon the air whirring
One more cat in the woodlands purring
As it hunts for things that hide in the shadows laughing.

Time sick, sick, sick, time rock, rock, and roll!
Another slice in the body of life
Another poke at the decrepitude
Another painful kick in the groin
Shadows play in their comfort zone, and cry for life.

This year is now but a few moments to be gone once again
There were civilizations built, and those torn down
Great people were birthed, and others passed on by
I will never wonder, what, nor how, but sometimes why
When the bullet finally finds its home in my brain
I’ll sing with gusto, this quiet zombie refrain:

Be Brightness, sing to the night,
Never loose faith, never loose the light
It is within us all to change the world
And set to rights, all those things
That we name, that we plunder
In our fears, we tear asunder
We are all of the now
We are all of the future
We are all of the choices
We are all that needs be.
Be, Brightness.

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We Are The Dead

Zombie Zak

We are the Dead.
We walk beside you, we work with you, we serve your needs as much as the living; as much as our own needs are to be fulfilled. We seek the answers, we seek the questions, we dig deep within the essence of Life to find what will be found, as it may relate or confound each of us.

We are the Dead.
We look like you, we sound like you, we integrate into society in much the same way as you do; but we are not the same. We furrow through the muck of dichotomy and disciplines of movement throughout the sphere of the civilized world, and ofttimes are just as confused as the living in respect to how things work versus how things should work, and why they refuse to obey the simple laws of the physical realm.

We are the Dead.
We do not wait for shadows to swallow us whole, we do not stare at the stars and ponder a world farther away than our own, we do not dream of fluffy bunny rabbits nibbling on carrots and peas. We waste no time on the unnecessary, as only existence is the thing. It matters not the quality, if survival is the only measure of success.

We are the Dead.
We are amongst you, we are beside you, we are you. If you are reading this, then it is already too late for you, and you will soon become one, with us. Time has no meaning, nor measure, if one is not inclined to fear what steps take us from one situation to another; nor the consequences that a choice might fail, or succeed.

You are the Dead.
It is, inevitable. All will become one, with the Zombie way … Shall we nibble, or shall we play?

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Dreamers In Hell

Dreamers In Hell

The sense of wonder, upon waking and realizing that you’ve accomplished something. This is something to cherish, to hold close to one’s soul and used to nourish and inspire oneself to continued efforts to excel.

Many people in the world today are willing to settle for the things that Life, Society, the World lays at their feet; many, too, are more than happy to merely lambast said same with bile about how more should be given unto them, without their own two hands being slapped on the shovel to put muscle to work, to move sand, to move water, to move fire, to move air in order to make something from what was not already there.

I am not one to cast doubt or shame upon other’s work, nor their goals or ideals in life. I would prefer to focus on my own objectives, my desires, my vision of world domination – I believe that my energies are much more productive that way. I would likewise prefer, to show the world what I mean by my efforts, and prove to others that the path to personal vindication, to personal success, starts from within oneself. Nobody will give me, my prize; nobody will hand me the world on a platter – and, truth be told, would I really want that world in that manner?


I have no fear of working hard, to reach something that I feel I can attain. I strive to build the structure that I wish to house my spirit within, every day. And, I hope, that in doing so, I also can show others an equally valid way. To overcome obstacles, to reach out for significance, to bow down to no fell spirits with ill intent, and to take hold of one’s own path and make one’s own choices.

Choice. It truly is the only thing which you possess that is yours, and yours alone. To stay, to go, to burn, to cry, to fall down to the depths, or to reach out and fly. Let thy spirit sing as it will, dance as it can, spiral both out and in and find the answers that make the most sense to one’s self.

And, to think, this particular blog entry was/is/will be, the prelude to my discussion about Hell. Or, rather, more specifically, about Heroes in Hell; and even more specifically, about Dreamers in Hell. Hehehee….

Those who may know me a little or a bit more, know that I enjoy a good bit of fun, and a lot of gore. A bit of rhythm, a pinch of rhyme, a cast iron skillet ain’t got no reason to be sublime.

Today, I’d like to mention, that a story of mine appears in this anthology, “Dreamers in Hell”. It’s published by Perseid Press, and available on Amazon, Barns & Noble and all those other fine esteemed electronically entombed establishments. This marks the second story of mine that has appeared in the ongoing Heroes in Hell anthology series, which now numbers 14 books. (Alas, I was not around to be in the first 12; but, I’ll try to make up for lost ground.)

My story, continues with developing the bond between Fionn and Caliban, with exposure to both Caliban’s Mom (Sycorax) and Merlin, too; oh, and let’s not forget Freud – that wacky psychology guy! Fun ensues as personalities clash and my characters continue to eke out their Hellish existence in a realm, in a Hell that they never made, but are cognizant of being a part of.

As it should be obvious, and completely understood, I would ask that you purchase the book – either in print or in Kindle. And, if you would be so kind as to share your opinions of the book online, I would be ever so grateful and I would wish nothing but the tastiest of selections of cookies to be on your dinner plate.

Thanks for reading these ramblings of a zombie, this evening, this night; may the darkness be held at bay, and may thy thoughts be ever bright! Sleep well within the blankets of dreams, and know that Hell is still full of screams!


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We Are The Storm

Storm Cloud with Lightning

We are the storm.

We are the dark clouds of intentions filling the sky with meaning and meaninglessness. The collection of thoughts and improbabilities that surface momentarily and are gone, that blow through the cascades of lives that see but a moment of time upon the backdrop of existence. The fell spiral of desire coalescing amongst the tallest sights, falling back upon the basic belief that all things can be worked out. The haze that splinters clear thought and produces rashness, harshness, ill conceived plans that look good but turn poorly upon the page.

We are the peal of thunder spearing through the evening demesne of time and tide. The spiritual beachhead of incongruity spreading ever farther and faster within the house of darkness wrought. The echo of countless cries for help that have fallen on deaf ears, turned blindly against the wake of mercy. The howl of countless throats raised against the night and the fears that hold the darkness deep within our hearts with pain and with rage.

We are the actinic crack of lightning that shoots through the bracken of wasted potential, the soul suck that slips into the slightest of crevice and twists the words that could bring Brightness into being. The cancerous leech of wrack and ruinous plans spent against the brightest minds and fouled with personal glory, sullied by unsubtle greed and the ground, running red, a giant laid waste upon the ground, and made to bleed.

We are the rain of blood and viciousness that washes away all hope, all forgiveness, all desire to produce wondrous results. The torrential violence of space strewn across perception and capability. The essence of Life, boiled into droplets, and splattered across the Cosmos, both the infinite, and the singular, all, wrapped up with the same desperate need to be … something … different!

We are the storm!

We are the cleansed sky, bright and blue, and full of new. The open frontier of existence, unpainted, unpretentious, unrepentantly joyous in the day and the ability to find new ways. The blossom of green, growing things and the rise to greatness from smallest sense of serenity, to the greatest gift of magnanimity.

We are the calm air that washes over and brings peace, and the potential for prosperity. The dry soul, full of the burst of chaos that breeds living things and spreads across the land, the sea, the air in ways so myriad and diverse, that neither mention nor measure can ever compare.

We are the memory of pain and loss, of suffering and great deeds wrought against — or for — darkness; the soul searing prod that reminds from where we came, from where we arose. The ideations that we, as individuals and as collectives both draw our greatest strengths and weaknesses from. The knowledge, that where we are now, was bought with immense effort, and prices paid, in order for us to attain the state that we are in now.

We are the remains of the sundered realms of thought, to Earth and beyond, these gifts are brought. The cleansing splash of water to surface that rinses clean the ill wrought devices of what could have been and what was. The new born slate, freed from the mistakes of the pasts, but clearly worded, that those things that have passed, can always return, and a good accounting of those things, will in turn, bring progress and the ability to rise above both the ground, the sky, the limitations of mind and hand and soul.

We are the Storm!

The two edged sword of existence, both Bright and Dark. The harbingers of self, combined, contained, commingled within the weapon of self. This game need neither win, nor lose; merely being is game enough to continue to play.

We are ALL the Storm! Go play in the rain!

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My Weird-May 2013

Know Your Zombie

What way, this wicked Weird I speak to? What thing is thought, when my Weird is given to talk?

This world is full of varied things, of dark and light, tis given the world to fondle, and watch the bright. Shadows crawl upon the most innocuous of things, and silence is a brief twinkle in the eye of a sickly string. There are more things upon Earth, Heaven, or Hell, or by whatever other name Humans are inclined to tell. There crawls, there flies, there swims so many different things to which name has not been put, that the end of all things someday, will be named merely by its glut.

We are a species dedicated to many different ideals; we see this world in many different lights, through eyes shaped by various circumstances. To our own senses, we name these things, these experiences by the devices, the instruments, the truths to which we are taught. It is never enough, merely to name a thing, and forget its name, as if it were naught.

The conflicts we bare, both past fought and yet to be contended, are as diverse as the stars that are scattered throughout the Universe. We are merely specks upon this backdrop of Life, and in all of our times, we scuttle with strife.

There are many lessons to be learned in our journeys through the day to day, generation to generation. Sometimes we see the teaching, sometimes we are but butterflies going from flower to flower, with nary a thought to be seen.

My greatest hope, is that one day, as a species, our eyes will be open enough, to see that not only the mud can hold our attention long enough to build something from, but so, too, can our spirits soar greater than our abilities to see where they land. The stars in the sky are not just a place to go to, but they are a stepping stone by which we can gather courage to go … farther than merely the limit of imagination.

Go forth, birth thoughts that burst past the box, the humdrum mediocrity of living, and be, alive!

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After Rot-Guests: Kim Poirier and Ray Ellingsen

100 Days of Death

It’s Wednesday night! Time for another After Rot!

9PM EST/EDT (which ever T you prefer…)

Tonight’s show features guests, Kim Poirier and Ray Ellingsen.

Kim has been in a number of movies (Dawn of the Dead[2004], Decoys, The Rats, American Psycho II, plus others] and TV shows (PSI-Factor, Paradise Falls, Mad Men, Eureka, plus others)

Ray has produced, written and directed a number of movies and documentaries.

Together, they are the driving force behind Moving Pictures Media Group and they’re current big thing is the multiple medias project: 100 Days of Death.

Novel (due out soon), upcoming graphic novel (to feature the art and mad skills of Tommy Castillo), and soon to be made into a movie.

Come along tonight and play with us on the TMVCafe.


Also, check out the Kickstarter Project:

100 Days of Death Kickstarter

Check out Tommy Castillo at:

Tommy Castillo

Ray at:

Ray Ellingsen on IMDB

Kim at:

Kim Poirier

And, of course, they’re all on FaceBook, too!

Most importantly, don’t forget to swing by After Rot on FaceBook, and give us yer Likes!

After Rot on FaceBook

Remember: Be there, or be dessert!

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