Thursday, August 21, 2008


The #9 blood of many
spilled for you
to jostle and suck and rattle
swirls of peppermint
about your woozy tongue.
Sticky, stained lips,
drawing deep the pungent flame
sharp odor, up and into nostrils flair.

Bite down hard,
splitting the atom candy cane crunch

into two…
then four…
then more…
then – none.
Funny, how that little red and white swirl,
stays behind,
in cavities yet,
not fit for the drill.
@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).


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