Thursday, September 27, 2007


...awakenings, too lateWhores make the best lovers…
technically speaking, of course.”
He ponders alone,
in sweet bundled repose,
imagining the trickle of sweat
from his burning forehead
wiped clean as a thousand tongues
their supple sticky juices
changing chemistries mingled
with passionate acrylic finger tipped scars,
proudly displayed
across his arching back.
“Their eagerness to please…”
he explains to no one,
“…for a modest fee.”
- pleasure per cost distilled
more blissful than truths
or that filthy harlequin
promised romances
strung like beads
tightening about his tickling parched throat.

How thoroughly satisfying then?
How now?
To pry these dead memories
self professed
the boulevardier cut adrift,
impaled and pricking
on the sour gnash of repayment.
Thrust into the dry filthy crust of dawn
lucid and cold
with prying eyes
and probing inquiries –
a different sort,
into each deep sunken crevice
starched over by a frosting of saliva:
dire price tag
coughing up wish fulfillments
for compassion only,
any hint of warmth,
or perhaps
- merely death

and a soft Dresden arm
to lay upon these corrupted entrails,
trading insatiable needs
for the dull prick
from a physician’s needle.
“Technically speaking…of course.”
@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).


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