Friday, May 18, 2007


Your veins, my lord Cesare
are thick with gazpacho
clotting reason into the murky,
chive-infested depths
garnished by rancid bile
mingling, the corrosive element -
where a tempo heart,
so desolate barren and cold,
must indeed have drowned –
in tomato juice
along with logic’s most perverse
and decadent stir.
You skulk the grand Mediterranean halls,
dragging this soupy mixture,
acidic, yet pure,
reaping the coal of taste buds
even more thirsty for new conquests
under your savory guise of one -
a nation for all,
only…all for thyself
and thine fractured dream.
To kiss your lips,
is to know sweet perfume -
death’s after dinner wine.

You are indeed,
the blood of nobles,
displeasured more and ever still,
as vengeance draws no mercy
to suckle lasting juices,
from that heavy-corseted breast.
the naïve forgets his victories,
peppered to taste,
seasoned too great –
though no better than
a prince of slaves.

@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).