| Nick lives in Ontario, Canada. Two of his 3 screenplays are currently being considered in Hollywood. He participated in editing Totally Unused Hearts from Black Moss Press, has work featured on various web publications, writes editorials for Retort Magazine, and is looking for representation and a home for his books and new screenplays. |
© 2003 Nick Zegarac
When
The Light Goes Out
Awakening
to a thin mess of knit cotton,
flounced
about sticky flesh,
sweat
soaked through,
he
reached across for the switch,
and
instantly knew that something was wrong.
Not
again!
muttered
in low sustained rage,
neck
hair prickling,
fist
clenched,
violently
peeling the oily sheets.
Not
again!
No
toast or coffee!
No
shower to cleanse,
naked
distemper
from
his narrowing brow.
No
inaccurate weather reports,
or
radio banality,
coloring
his thoughts.
The
order of the day -- disrupted,
altered,
ruined,
as
the drippy thaw
of
liquefying ice cream.
We
can send a man to the moon,
and
probe the inner reaches of Mars.
We've
conquered the stars!
But
this planet? -- NO!
Our
futile efforts,
to
tame and subdue,
have
blackened the world,
frustrations
and dependency stripped raw,
as
the burgeoning spring grass,
cutting
virgin blades through the snow,
to
unexpected confusions
in
a world, whose eyes,
have
suddenly been closed.
Death
of a Scientist
One
low gasp -
then
two,
alerted
him to the attack.
Wheezing
thrash,
unable
to draw in breath,
between
half swallows
of
slow congealing phlegm.
Twin
pedestals,
buckling
at his knee,
thunderous
timber,
split
in two lightning thrusts.
Eyes
drooping,
lips
tinted Robin-egg blue,
rosy
cheeked bloom
swept
into chalk,
panic
distilled echoes...
"Help!
Somebody!
Is
there no one to help my husband?!"
He
veered off into heaven,
beckoning
Galileo's swoop from the stars,
but
saw only coal and the devil,
and
died -- a broken man,
with
one eternal reminder,
and
the cold dead hand of the universe,
closing
his heart to her forever.
Lost
The
impulsive swell,
of
her misshapen breast,
drew
his heated breath
into
forced puffs.
Deeper,
labored,
struggling.
Onward
-- lasting expulsion
of
tainted youth,
with
the ball of his socks,
resting
off to their side,
tempo
driven
keeping
time,
as
a pounding drum roll,
through
each fall
and
rise.
Their
eyes, in unison closed,
to
an unholy surprise,
with
the sparked innocence
of
childhood suddenly,
irreversibly
behind
them.
(see
more)
All poems are copyrighted property of Nick Zegarac.
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© 2003 SubtleTea Productions All Rights Reserved |