| 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
She
Solemn
as the pallor of half moon light,
exposing
one breast to scrutiny,
barred
from logic,
her
own continuity partitioned,
halved,
then quartered
beyond
all human recognition
no
aspiration for divine unity.
Too
small?
Too
soft?
The
curve of her hand resting light,
fleshy
deposit, decidedly ruined,
too
round, inappropriately mapped
disjointed
and dislodged.
An
hour past
vane
glorious repose.
The
study robbed of all artistic merit,
nothing
of value produced,
decided
upon.
But
more confusion spun tightly,
as
the brittle wrap of an egg roll.
Insecurity
conniving truth from it lofty perch,
milk
of time spilled uselessly,
when
she might have expanded
on
well bred thoughts to refuse,
or
pray silently deep
into
a book of Psalms.
50%
She
said that he didn't love her anymore,
lost
to him now,
gaunt
glimmering wisp of refracted affection,
spread
too thinly to matter,
stale
remnants of a waning life
captured
only in snapshots of carefree smiles
barely
remembered
and
windswept under forgotten journeys
once
planned to resurrect cold ashes
from
the hollow of his absent heart.
She
said that he had been unfaithful,
long
before the faint slither
of
desperate fingers,
grappler
of each fickle allure
sculpting
his supple mind,
weaning
ego on cooed placates
shallow
promises,
sweet
unadulterated escapes -
to
what?
More
of the same,
masquerading
as the next best thing,
with
dull sparkles of cheap cut-glass,
an
imitation more demanding,
than
she might ever have been.
And
he knew, within the coiled recess,
tape
recorder brain in chronic replay,
dallying
faint reminders
of
erotic shameful launches
behind
those shoplifted hips,
lipstick
tattooed, scarlet letter heart.
He
knew, at last
that
she needed him no more,
wanted
him no less,
the
"for sale" sign revoked
and
heavy slats to her blinded soul
turned
under,
his
labyrinth of confused insincerity,
mounting
abysmal failure
destined
to haunt his every move,
each
time he caught her wavering glimpse,
reflecting
back at him
from
the rear view mirror.
All poems are copyrighted property of Nick Zegarac.
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© 2003 SubtleTea Productions All Rights Reserved |