Friday, October 26, 2007


Sit, my friend,
drawing loose tongue
into deep laps of bubbling intoxication
whilst I illuminate the possibilities.

- a ghost story, then…
superficially corrosive to logic
bolstering the wonder-path
overactive imagination
thrust undulating and diluted
into the murky crust of darkness.
We see…we think…
we hear quick light footsteps on the ceiling
perhaps a servant girl
-yes…gone down
into rat infested bowels of a Tudor manor house,
where the good doctor buried
rotting flesh of his wily mistress
concealing their infidelity from an unhealthy wife.

A flash and flicker, then
no – gunfire!
The heavy role and tumble
shattered skull,
clumsily careening
down damp wooden stairs.

Ah yes…then to summon the spirit –
by faith – not prayer,
or, perchance the unholy séance…
specter of Dashiell Hammet,
nay – Sherlock Holmes…
or maybe just a hint of Jessica Fletcher
For sincerity,
to calm the taut
fine fingering nerve-strings
my caustic violin heart
quickening as though by arsenic…

…the same as in your champagne flute -

Dear guest,
You are the murder tonight
@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).


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