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more 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





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 midnight 's,

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.







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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