Sunday, April 29, 2007


We think a discovery has been made,
Galileo predicted long ago,
that butch barren men,
foppishly fancied,
wielding their garish affectations
this enlightened age -
clutching a favorite brazen self image,
caught drowning
Narcissist pools,
by limpid candle wax
drip, dropping into clusters.

Inside the antechamber gossips,
pluck their lute song
bailing the fresh choral
half-naked angels’ dares,
teased by the sudden suggestion of merry men.
‘Go home to your dutiful wives,’
they whisper wearily,
knowing no use.

Only after the last bitter kiss of Plato
leers from shadowed halls
blowing judgment upon its wicked
but sparing unloved,
inner children of night -
bedazzled, speckled red hens,
darting about the cobbled court yard,
unaware -
goose, cooked.

She is next -
The one dallying female desired
from this ornate, encumbered crowd-ling set
copper and lace,
and wine to adulated song
‘Please, there are gentlemen present…’
- those
who would have preferred to have been
ladies instead?
@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).


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