The Web Poetry Corner
DreamMachineThe Web Poetry Corner is a Dream Machine Site
The Dream Machine --- The Imagination of the World Wide Web

The Web Poetry Corner

Nick Zegarac


Windsor, ON, CA

Home Authors Alphabetically Authors Date Submitted Authors Country Submission Rules Feedback

If you have comments or suggestions for Nick Zegarac, you can contact this author at: (Nick Zegarac)

Find a book store near you, no matter where you are located in the U.S.A.!


...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities

Gypsy's Photo Gallery



Nick Zegarac

Perhaps he felt alone or trapped,
life saver deflating,
sails full of holes
white capped memoirs cresting well over his head,
adrift on an endless journey,
too painful to live.
Imagine the maelstrom.
Whirlpool of confusions,
his shattered heart slowing
brain wildly spinning out of control,
regretful rodent - tunneling
the cavities of his mind,
bloated, ringing, pounding
a great migraine of tortured sounds.
No escape. No escape.
The musty suffocation of a matted down pillow
cramming duck feathers inside his throat.
Silly, actually,
to think about him at all,
with the body there,
disfigured, stiff, twitching aftershocks
loosely swinging from the rattle, rattle, snap chain
each time the garage door went up.
And for a second I see him,
sweaty mess, limp,
purple ligature cut deep into his throat,
left sneaker barely clinging
to the last stitch of black cotton sock,
a great soggy pendulum of wasted hours
come resting to one final tick-tock.
I can almost hear the chimes.



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 midnightís,
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.



Nick Zegarac

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.

No Longer Her Own


Nick Zegarac

The baby came first,
but love did not follow
into the once happy abode
of passionís sway.

She spat disdain,
her insults aplenty,
and found no comfort,
hidden amusements,
in the silly quirks
and swaggering attributes
that had charmed her to ruin.

And cried no more,
the vain glorious remnants
of forgotten virtues.

Each silent wail
the torment of youth chained,
every thought looped
about with a safety pin
belonging to no one,
but that concrete bundle of new flesh.
Mindless, squirming,
teething, gurgling,
fatty arms stretched upward
toward something she had no desire to give.

She would run!
She could hide,
the greedy moon of her
reflected desires
eclipsed in one puff of exhaust,
pulling from the drive,
rounded as the corner
to no solid vista of freedom undefined,
Alas, never to be,
once that tiny pink car seat,
rocking empty against the back,
caught her bleary, crazed
and fate-less eye.



Nick Zegarac

She said that he didnít 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 ressurect 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.