EMILE BY CABERNET

In sullied thrash
giddy hysterics, she cackles
arms spread
by invitation only…
across a discount wavy quilt.
Kinky little strip of negligee
snuggling, preening,
with tag tucked firm into gurgling collar bone.
Ahoy!
All sales are final –
tonight, at least…
but tomorrow,
this unmentionable
may go back on the rack.
No matter.
He doesn’t mind –
not him…
her hairy bow-legged polar bear
on bony knees,
leering into ocean rolls of comfort only she can provide…
well, maybe…a few of her friends.
She doesn’t think about that –
much.
If only the rest of him were as svelte –
she daydreams,
as thick knuckles
press into swells
her gravity-misshapen breasts.

Stormy contemplations gorge and fill,
drizzling cheaply, erotic liqueurs,
in – then out
making bubbly pools in the pit of her navel.
The only safe port
comes with reprisals,
but no genuine regrets.
Ironic…
how most women yearn for dreamboats,
when slipping on rose-colored halibuts,
craggy sailors off the wharf
with barnacle crusts
above and below their water line,
just as easily…
can satisfy Emile by Cabernet.
Ahoy again!
Oh…and man overboard.

@ Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).

THROB OF MEMORY

He existed today,
but dwelt beyond,
memorizing yellowing photographs
from another lifetime,
drawing the rod of imagination,
sliced deep into his distended passions,
peeling each rotting layer away -
and mesmerized.

The sandpaper touch
of gnarled finger-tip
barnacle crusts
emancipated,
permitted, in whimsical fantasy
this bittersweet glimpse
into hour-glass absences.
Never the witness.
Always the messenger.

Bleeding for that prenatal nostalgia
extended to second-hand experience
shopworn and ruddy
only in thumbnail sketches
and the thrash of memory –
burnt -
on to the golden throb
stepping clumsily
into his present day consciousness.

@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).