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Poetry by Nick Zegarac 

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,



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.







The impulsive swell,

of her misshapen breast,

drew his heated breath

into forced puffs.






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,


behind them.

(see more)






All poems are copyrighted property of Nick Zegarac.



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