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Jamie F Nugent Nov 2020
I thought I heard laugher
from the ditch,
hanging melodious
in the air like cling film.

Closer inspection: only
a whispered babble of nothing
from the oily runnels
from their slumber in the ditch,
like empty famished corpses
in the ditch.

Going on,
The Silence shall be sudden.

As if surrounded by gaudy bridesmaids
clamoring for the bouquet,
Naked trees are on either side of me,
with a tumbling light pouring
through their skeletal sticks.

I pulled my scarf tighter,
Because November
is slapping my face,
as if a patronising mobster
was aware of his might,
and of my own
quivering unimportance.

Going on in an adagio,
slight slump,
the scarf even tighter now,
I begun to warm up
to the facts of absence.

It was good at the time,
to laugh, to be
always served the same
amount of dessert,
same sweetness
on the tongue.

The habits of we
who are young.

Those routine rendezvous
practiced precisely
as a scalpel slicing
two equal halves
of soft gry brain;
How then thoughts
drip sickly out, to
multiply like rabbits
around a thornbush.

There's a witch wicked
in my memory machine,
laughing on a crag,
bathed in Schadenfreude;
She's knows the house is haunted
by pieces of you,
abandoned and useless;
In between cushions,
stuffed into drawers,
or clogging up a drain.

I keep finding them.

Even accidentally,
this excavation continues
for your scatterings, they
seem to be duplicating
like heads on a hydra.

All the pieces,
(when discovered)
are gathered up
to be ****** alongside
with some other junk.

You wouldn't want
them back anyway,
would you?
they're nothing to write
home about,
they sit down like tame dogs
among the miscellaneous sundries:
Devine Catholic tat
also yet to be tossed.

What use is a half eaten
stick of Knock rock
that chipped away
a portion of my incisor anyway?

Still more useful than some things.
Jamie F Nugent Nov 2020
Guarding the door,
like a bulbus Heimdall,
a blank pumpkin sits,
internally unhallowed,
without gashed gaping maw,
nor knife-notched nose,
nor eyeslits: triangular and odious.

Its inertia, serendipitous,
not for a moment did it greet
children asking
Never a one did it glow for.

Encased within, like
those stringy pumpkin guts,
is the puckish Pagan spirit,
craving bones ablaze in a fire;
Lost Loves manifested as moonlit
flaxen apparitions,
finding them Angelic
(yet unchanged),
easily as a ring
found in barmbrack.

A return to the turnip.

Ambling along ferns
rusted that same shade of pumpkin,
pondering the dead, and where
I long for them to reside now;
Rose, with her heaven,
Ryan, his Valhalla.

To each their Kingdom
of eternal inviolate peace.
Barmbrack, also often shortened to brack, is a quick bread with added sultanas and raisins. The bread is associated with Halloween in Ireland, where an item, normally a ring, is placed inside the bread, with the person who receives it considered to be fortunate.

On all Hallow's Eve, the Irish hollowed out Turnips, rutabagas, gourds, potatoes and beets. They placed a light in them to ward off evil spirits and keep Stingy Jack away. These were the original Jack O'Lanterns.
Jamie F Nugent Oct 2020
Under a certain light,
with calm mollifying gleam,
at the touch of a hand
aphasia sets in quick,
sudden and sweet, and
submerged in a pool of milk,
I become a toy submarine.

When candles did die,
burnt to their wicks,
I hear you sing,
holding up half of my skies,
convulsive muscles flex,
as if a broken thing
was longing to be fixed.

Surly time stilled passed?
Though from its presence,
we were absentees,
too preoccupied with
our arms stretched outwards
weightless as bodies
on the Dead Sea.
Jamie F Nugent Oct 2020
A shaky hand that
possesses paper cuts
and letters of lovers' past
is bleeding brilliant
as a sunset.

Bespectacled milky eyes
twitch in and out
of consciousness
like a revolving door
with no exit.

Misshapen ballerina feet
seize up and cramp,
often their hue goes from
the colour of raw meat,
when until becoming still,
settle into blue.

Warmth goes,
the whole of the body
like a pound-shop doll
after too much play,
is reduced to
an artifact only to be
handled by white gloves,
in a dim room smelling faintly
of dust and mahogany.

In such rooms
often there are
recollections of
the whole of the body,
dancing dances
of rapture and grace
on the tips
of ballerina feet.
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2020
We should stop
meeting on rainy days
and for once
soak up some of that sun
we kept hearing about.

I don't mind it,
the rain,
when you're caught with me
in it,
a revelation under a raincoat;
It only takes a few drops
for you to glisten like
a stain-glass window.

all it does is rain,
all we do is laugh.

Dressed in gray and pale,
blending into the clouds
like how a Sunday stew
gets into the air,
like how
love gets in your bones.

We could stop
meeting on rainy days
and drink moonlight
like it was absinthe,
indulging in
serenades and waltzes.

We shall have rainy days,
we shall have sunny days,
and when
all it does is rain,
all we'll do is laugh.
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2020
What name can I give you?
Surely there are none
and it is pointless to try,
like giving names to
celestial bodies,
or quantum particles.  

I thought I could capture it,
that the gaps would be filled in,
like space between
crocodile teeth
clasped on a zookeeper's hand.
I thought
If I could paint like Wyeth,
I'd have my Helga.

What name do I give you?

Maybe Odessa,
laughing on the crest of a wave,
dragged by purple currents,
among gulls on Earth,
and storms in the sea?

Perhaps Athena,
with gleaming eyes
and an owl in your hand?

Or Queen Maeve,
raw with beauty,
buried upright
facing your enemies?

but it must be something,
for the shake of necessity,
So as to call out when
loitering on lake's edge,
or from across a room
when I see you there,
uncanny as my reflection
in a convex mirror.

I'll call it out.

It's not that I want to,
but that I do;
Just as frogs jump,
just as the tongue
pushes on the aching tooth,
I see Venice in
cheekbone crevices,
smell Vienna in a tangle of hair.

This tropism is
an elephant stomping
the marrow out of me,
and it's alright,
it feels good,
and Wisdom is her name.
Jamie F Nugent Jun 2020
I ate the whole world to find you.
Yesterday, and days before,
these are just bohemian villages to me,
where a boy flies a blue kite,
sees the sun on your back
and rainclouds in synecdoche.

Today, tomorrow,
but mostly today,
when the clogs blossom
yellow daffodils that
hide bare hairy heels,
bold and black
as Twiggy mascara.

A thousand phone calls later,
there won't be an answer.

For all our intermissions
were like cancer
ward smoke breaks.

Purple hands stained yellow,
with a dark blue mouth saying,

"Hold me, please just hold me".

Even if just for the warmth,
warmth which was
lacking here,
as cold as inside Russian tanks.

We hugged,
with all the surprise and violence
as an acid attack
on supermodels face,
we hugged.

Then after that,
tried as Latvian money,
half-alive in a ditch
pining over you,
the way a cat's tongue
pines for milk and breadcrumbs,
Tasted like salt, they did,
The tears that were shed,
Giving drinks to the mice.
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