January is a serial killer,

January is a climbing pillar,

January is a ****** stain,

January is a crashing train,

January is a spider bite,

January is a sleepless night,

January is Eliot's contradiction,

January is an infinite affliction,

January is a lacerated heart,

January is the very worst part,

January is a poison potion,

January is death in slow motion,

January is a *****,

January nevermore.



-Jamie F. Nugent

Girl with the gray eyes,
Girl who trips over her words,
her pretty dead stare-

Blue eyed boy, shy, coy,
he grabs her when she stumbles,
he loves when she stares-

Nice weird nervousness,
strange electricity pours,
static, when they touch.

-Jamie F. Nugent

There stood the good boy and the nice girl,
There stood joys from their curls,
They moved closer, awkwardly like chess pieces,
Until they folded like checkers,
And all the feeling released;
Never had he took ecstasy,
But had given it
And she never inhaled
Anything like him before,
Red poppies growing
Between the cracks
Of a checked floor.


-Jamie F. Nugent

The crab scuttles along the sand,
The tide scuttles over the shore,
A lifeless jellyfish washed up by waves,
In its seaside grave, forevermore.

Dolphins jumping out of the the water,
Over the read sun
Under blue blankets of waves,
On the bed of its horizon.

The seagulls look on and laugh,
The fishes listen and smile,
We will swim in the shallow sea,
And then walk for a while.

Watching the ships return from their voyage,
As they sail slowly into the marina,
The sailors walk by us - nodding-
Into the café brimming with sounds of a concertina.

We stay there 'till the sun's daily death,
In the crowed café under the moon,
And over the skull session, you asked in my ear;
'Shall we leave later or soon?'

It doesn't really matter much to me,
I ask you what do you think,
Taking the endmost of wealth from my pocket,
It is enough for one last drink.

Now, the sea-turtles are gone to bed,
The seagulls, away they have flown,
Drink to health and stub out that cigarette,
For it is time to go home.

-Jamie F. Nugent

When this Bonnie Parker
And Clyde Chestnut Barrow romance
Had its shootouts,
We'd run for cover,
I was the gunman and
You, the getaway driver.

We'd drive until the sun had set
(If the gas haven't run out first)

The next day,
The next town,
A different time,
A different place,

My same sweet Bonnie.

-Jamie F. Nugent

Dancing on the drink stained tables
Because there's no more room
Out on the crowded flimsy floor,
That is uneven and *****,
Drinks are spilled, then replaced
And smoke lingers in the air,
But what does it matter anyway?
There's music filling the old room,
Music that's frightening to the old,
But still too much for the young.
In here,there is no snowstorm,
In here, God is alive and it's 1955.
The fiddles don't sing, they howl.
The storytellers don't speak, they rave.
A hiding place to wish away anything.

-Jamie F. Nugent