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Oct 8 · 22
Deadman's Float
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.
Oct 8 · 21
Often
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.
Jul 31 · 47
Raining Today
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.

Sometimes,
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.
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?

Infeasible,
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.
Jun 26 · 30
Cwtch
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.
Jun 10 · 39
Sunshine
The sun first rose
when I set sight on you,
the one who crushed up
all credence
with mortar and pestle,
pulverized until
finer than milky
Spanish sand
under the bare foot
of a fat British tourist,
gazing at half-buried
Camels mouthing
the words

"fumar mata."

In a desert,
I waited for dawn,
I danced for rain,
I thought of you,
and that somewhere
there was a little stray
dog lapping up puddle-water,
a Polish beer bottle pressed
to a drunkard's swollen lip,  
like a hose filling up
a plastic blue paddling pool,
while the children stood in the sun.
Jun 9 · 47
Walls
At the day's final stretch,
while Sarah, our
lady of circumstance
with Cherub's complexion,
shifted through the multitude,
trying to lay her lips on
every boy in the room.

Belladonna took my hand,
ambled down the field,
skipping over
any affairs of the heart.

I thought of mono,
of cold sores,
embarrassments
of a hazy morn'
and of the mob's eyes.

With no apologies
she went on
feasting away as a
red-bellied
stickleback would,
then carried out
Caesarean section
on walls of plastic,
on walls of flesh.

Laying there,
intimate as rotting wood,
one of us asked
"Do you do this often?"
the other aching forward
"Hardly ever."
I was sitting.
She was sitting too,
only a little away from me.
Sill, close enough
that I felt her breath
when she spoke to me,
imagine,
me.
When she was not speaking,
it was me that took over the role,
albeit unwillingly as
my own voice was like
an instrument being
mangled against her choir of one.
Or it was silence,
which we both savored
without making it known,
floated in it,
the silence,
it was all,
save for a few
incidental sounds that sounded
still filling what void of what there was.
All that I hoped for,
if hope is what it is,
emanated from her
when and if she was speaking
or not speaking,
when I felt her breath
or when I felt her silence.
We, now that’s a thought,
could have been said
to be happy then,
there, sitting happily together,
which we ourselves alluded to,
we weren’t about to
follow the rabbit
down into that hole,
not that we didn’t want to,
but could not.
There, which must
have been inside because
outside we could smoke,
but she didn’t smoke,
and I didn’t then either,
and maybe ever not at all had done,
or did, once,
but not there,
inside,
among music
and the steaming cups
that were filled with hot chocolate,
or maybe it was hot milk,
or tea,
which at the very least was hot,
but also it could have been
that the tea was cold,
or white,
or morning,
or evening,
or black,
or yellow,
or chamomile,
or mint,
or jasmine,
or Oolong,
or tandoor,
or gunpowder,
or ginger,
or gray,
or green,
or earl grey,
or assamor,
or Darjeeling,
or hibiscus,
or keemum,
or chai,
or masala chia,
or Kenyan,
or English breakfast,
or chia again,
or Irish breakfast,
or lunch,
or brunch,
or dinner,
or brinner,
or supper,
first or late,
or matcha,
or herbal,
or fresh,
or fermented,
or poured from a height,
or from a bottle,
or ***.
Or maybe it was coffee?
The portions of what
swirled and sloshed in our cups
were drank none the less.
We tried not drink it all at once,
for when were we to know
when another would come around?
Slow down, she said,
slow down and savoir it.
I tried.
She knew the how
and the why of why
I wanted it all at once,
but that really it should have
been everything
taken in smaller increments.
Little doses of a little pleasure,
or great rhapsodic
sporadic swathes of enrapturing bliss.
She filled me with the latter,
or both similarly and simultaneously.
The table,
which was really more
of a countertop in the wall,
didn’t hide much of anything,
not in the very least if
I leaned back,
and I did lean back,
and if I bent back,
I saw all of her,
her and her everything,
unobstructed by the table.
I could look into her eyes,
and would not have averted the gaze,
until I did,
so as to have her think
I was not the kind to gape or gopp,
but I was, I was.
A gapper; a gopper too.
But she was as bad as I,
more or less,
which I wouldn’t think
for a second if I had not caught
her gapping too,
and at me no less!
Dispute the equilibrium,
the balance we had,
we restricted our respective
stares respectively.
When her eyes were not on me,
I took in all of her,
head to toe,
and every last bit in between.
Every time her attention was
elsewhere was an opportunity
to take in a part of her,
to burn it onto my mind.
From the bottom, to the top,
slowly as if in danger of the bends,
I stole another glimpse.
At said bottom,
not her bottom,
which is also nice
but the bottom of her were
two black boots.
I wondered how hard
she could she get me a kick in those.
Then, moving up remember,
the socks, they were pink and
protruded out over
the top of the boots,
they could have been
pulled up higher,
they could have been
dragged down lower,
under the boots,
where they’d be invisible to all.
Next, and before
the trouser leg began,
there was the better
and actual leg,
leg of bare milk pale flesh
which for the first time I noticed
was populated with short, light hair;
I did not know then if the hair
was there because it was winter,
it must it been,
not that that was the reason it
must have been so,
but that it was winter,
possibly autumn,
why else would the drinks
have been hot?
Would the hair have been there
on the summer leg?
I would hope so.
There we go with hope again.
I would rather her
have the hair there
on the bare leg anytime,
if that’s what her wont was.
Possibly, I’m wrong.
Again.
Perhaps the legs,
the knees, the thighs,
the hips, the parts wrapped
up under dark red trousers
that were just tight enough
to make out the shape of them,
were thus because
she hadn’t need for them
to be otherwise.
But I couldn’t have been
the first one to look,
to notice, to wonder.
I couldn’t.
All I knew was that
I wanted to kiss those legs,
from the ankles,
and work my way up from there,
fall on my knees and
on my knees kiss them,
again, and again,
then go back around,
and perhaps just take
to improvisation at such a point,
for one arrives at such a point as that,
the particulars case to hold importance.
Other things to hold.
The other particulars at hand.
Then the abdomen,
the middle part with
the belly, ******* and back,
of which I would rub
out knots if she asked me,
indeed would do anything
if anything was asked of me,
be it to oil,
scratch,
shave,
wax,
lick,
or stroke.
Then,
only then,
the shoulders
comprising arms
comprising hands
comprising fingers.
I sat transfixed on
the gestures her hands
made as she spoke,
as well as my
fixation on the neck,
which along with the lips,
were the parts I felt
the strongest urge to kiss.
May 27 · 44
Bog Oak
Bent over double,
my spine crinkling
and made from tinfoil.

Like an old concertina,
you wheeze from
the stress of it all,
so do I, quietly
to myself.

You're startled upon
an anthill's discovery,
as if it were found in
a lover's rumpled bed.

Beetles clamber away,
away from the sweat,
from the sighs
given freely away
to Mother Earth,
or anyone who'll listen.

An emerald frog
springs from
a verdant patch,
into a wet ditch.

Unkind to the body,
is this toil,
but the thoughts roam,
like a pig in muck,
laughing,
if it could.

White cotton flowers
coat the ground,
like peckish gulls
         on a landfill,
or a sailor's corpse.

After tracks are made,
here left for there,
blood trickles
down shins,
knee-deep
in brambles.

The nest of the lark,
the hive of honeybee,
the owl doesn't dare,
the sweet tooth,
nor bare hand,
doesn't dare.

I go on walking,
with Quasimodo slouch,
feeling the spring
of the cracked ground,
kinetic and tepid,
under my own weight.

I could sleep
easy and dreamless,
away in a damp ditch,
pillow of frogs,
(still soft emeralds)
blanket of muck,
stiffening under
the sun on high,
shimmering soft and
red as a Bolshevik.

Then,
in 2,000 years,
I'll join them,
those who I saw
in a museum once,
with skin like
bog oak,
jaws ajar,
with eyes of dust,
they couldn't
look away.
May 20 · 89
Colours
She’s filled with colours.
They emanate as if
from a beehive,
fill this head,
make smooth all edges,
and borderlines of mine.

An orange August sun at dawn,
Risies like a lid.    

Wake me, wake me,
show me now,
please,
show me
colours again.
May 20 · 60
Growth Spurt
Oh, to grow!
the quickest I did it
was in those
first few weeks,
away in the womb,
but
if I was to grow
as fast as I did then,
by 50,
I'd surpass
Mount Everest.
May 13 · 137
How Often?
How often people must get hit by ambulances,
ones like me and you,
under blissful high,
grey stones skimming through
curb to traffic island to Westmoreland Street
only hearing it's rhythm over the city's dull beat.

In such tranquility,
oh how oh how
would you be to blame
for not hearing the cries
out of her,
out of he,
screaming your name?

How often people must drown in lakes
Those who couldn't wait the hour
to avoid stitches and aches.
Don't leave me alone
my friends, such rocks, you
could sink like gray stones.

Cease to skim and sink
as when Brian's life,
under water thick and black
as a squids ink,
Appeared flashing by,
he was near certain of the day he'd died.
May 13 · 337
Blue of the Night
Warm daze, when you wore flowers in your hair,
sleepless nights with your shawl wrapped 'round us both,
under glowing moon, paradise was there,
the blue of the night from the undergrowth,
down a dark garden, so far from daylight,
sharing the night with the sounds from the wild,
if the howls frighten you, I'll grip you tight.
With black flowing hair, in perfect mess styled,
take me to the beach, bury me in sand,
don't you know you are my approaching tide?,
the broken finger on the other hand,
for you, all of my doors lay open wide,
to places unknown and all things unplanned,
we'll hide there in golden castles of sand.
May 13 · 188
Sun Split the Stones
All along the cove,
a rare pretty sight,
the beach, hot as a stove,
barely a breeze to fly a kite.

When strolling down the strand,
no matter how far I go,
always a few shoulder deep in sand,
thankful the tide is still low.

Inevitable company found here,
Whether wanted or not, fine,
men slugging warm beer,
women sipping white wine.

Lazy Sunday afternoon,
Here, no worry at all,
we leave having done so too soon,
all along the cove, just having a ball.
Feb 29 · 54
Anhedonia
Candles.
Must get candles.
Did I get them before?
Sure where was I before?

I was nowhere.
Biting chunks out of the doors,
lumps out of the floor.
Try as I might,
I can't leave.

Now?

Not in this.
The snow's falling sideways.
The state of it,
all nimble and white.

A lot of tears last night;
and tonight?
No great difference,
but perhaps it could be worse?
Worse than before
I was nowhere.
Among the thorns,
incorporeal save for the
trampling anvil of brambles
rambling, rumbling,
pricking against the flesh,
the skin, in it's
folds and ridges,
veins and arteries
underneath and within,
without scandal,
I wriggle and wrangle
Against those thorns,
their tight strangle,
and this incongruous
state of affairs of mine,
for now.

Must get candles.
Dec 2019 · 37
Last Christmas
Jamie F Nugent Dec 2019
By fireplace,
growing colder,
the instinct coffee,
a soiled sorry bath,
had a foamy continent
he struggled to slurp down.

Shuffle down the hall,
shuffle off this mortal coil.

Trousers clung to the waist like
an autumn thing ready to die,
my mother about to cry,
clung to brittle hand and
brittle arm.

Her and I, in
parentheses
escorting
A coffin,
lungs lousy
with sawdust,
coughing up
black maladies in
silver spirals
to fade
In the air,
Always, and ever,
It seems,
The Christmas air.
Nov 2019 · 64
Memoriam
Jamie F Nugent Nov 2019
Through the gloom,
The air's brisk bite
Shovelled through and
Down my throat.

As I stood with them,
But alone
Outside your window;
Inside,
Memory
Came back to a mind,
This mind,
Scatterbrained and
Singing lyrics we
Once bellowed to eachother.
You sing and laugh in there still.

The things done in that room which
I'll never set foot in again.

Catharsis and chocolate
Coat shingles of my mouths roof.
This is what happens
When you run out of nothing -
When only a Viking funeral pyar
Would do
For you,
All of you,
Even the parts you couldn't get back,
When you smoked a James Joyce,
While the nurse let you out
For a cigarette.

Girls in tears,
Boys choking on bones of regret.
We're just children
Wanting, teething, weeping;
With a few more grays,
A little less grace, and
Every heart swelling with love,
Bursting into song,
tears, flames.

In nights with no sleep,
Only conversation,
The morning was years away.
Sep 2019 · 49
Null
Jamie F Nugent Sep 2019
Thoughts about you,
songs about you,
These people about you,
no worries in this world
when they're about you,
nither do I,
I try,
I try not to try to try,
but you've settled down,
gotten comfortable
as if at home,
alone, dinner for one,
all up in my skeleton,
But did I made you up?
No -
you took me down
to the underlying
side of a
melting iceberg,
where the penguins sit upon it
as the sun beats away
like a burning want,
strange animalist desire -
There's no magnetic field on Mars,
There
I wouldn't be pulled
one way or the other way,
There we would
just drift, like
melting icebergs
along red sand,
along mountains
the height of Everest,
almost as high
As I hold
you in my mind,
My closed first,
An open mouth,
could wait,
but it's
adolescent
fantastic fanatic fantasy,
maybe once,
not now,
not later,
but after later
at least,
at last -
45 minute blissful stints
better
the days
after days
after days
of the dull,
and nights
underneath
nights
inside
nights
Of null.
Sep 2019 · 65
Subsisting
Jamie F Nugent Sep 2019
‘What’s there to love if not the enigma?’
They sung among crescent waves
Or might as well have.  
One moment in the skull,
One moment in the gut.

In a yellow shade, she glowed,
Luminary.
I knew her beauty,
It came onto me in a paroxysm,
An armada of destroyers.

Echo of you,
Fountainhead of this, all this.
I'd drink from cupped hands,
If there was water in the well.

This place that was perfect,
That could never be,
I saw in her, the same utopia,
A thousand miles from you,
So perfectly close just then.

I knew her beauty,
All of it yours,
Not all of it there.
Her lips, your lips,
Her smile; her own.
Mar 2019 · 77
Elephant
Jamie F Nugent Mar 2019
The elephant in the room,
where do I even begin?
the room is an elephant.
It's walls, crumbled skin.

This room has no room
to talk, or to think.
Only show your true face,
When the elephant blinks.

The element of gloom,
as insecticide seeps in;
Deep, deep into groves,
In the cracks in our skin.
Aug 2017 · 218
I Would Love To
Jamie F Nugent Aug 2017
I would love to be with her,
Under heat of sun, and
Not these gloomy gray clouds.

I would love to walk with her,
On a sandy smooth beach, with
No rocks or a sewage stench.

I would love to laugh at her,
Fixed against a fridge's open door,
Instead of the slamming ones here.

I would love to see her soon,
All suntanned and golden, kissing
Me, impatient and pale -

Jamie F. Nugent
May 2017 · 292
Halley's Comet
Jamie F Nugent May 2017
The blood dripped like syrup from a Maple tree.
Your lips sourced the earth.
This was nothing new to me,
But you it must have been your Halley's Comet.

I could not see you, could only feel you breathe.
You wrapped around my fingers like a jelly ring.
On the dresser sat my eyes, sat my teeth,
It's such a shame this only happens once.

- Jamie F. Nugent
Mar 2017 · 351
Paddy's Day
Jamie F Nugent Mar 2017
The seventeenth of March
Is like our own little Christmas,
Thanksgiving, Independence Day,
And Fourth of July
All drunkenly rolled into one

When us Irish and wannabe Irish,
Sing our same old songs
Will repeat our tired mantra,
And do just what
The Irish are expected to do.

To watch nice green parades,
While sipping on nice green milkshakes.
To be drunkards and happy-go-lucky,
Doing our best Riverdance impression to fiddles,
Because everyone wants to be Irish.

Today we'll act like we only drink Guinness.
Where in a place full of craic and merriment,
There's still so much blood and tears.
Where the only snakes are pets or in zoos,
There's still so much venom.

Of course, there was never any snakes
Only metaphors for Pagans and Druidic priests,
And St. Pat wasn't even an Irishman,
Just a boy made into a slave by Irish pirates.
But everything always gets covered up nicely.

Stories get changed and sensitized,
Until the truth becomes a theory,
And fabrication becomes fact.
The truth begins to wear a veil,
Because it's considered so ugly.

The truth is also a beacon.
A flashlight against the dark.

Dark as the confessionals
Where a child's innocence was
Crippled by
The lukewarmness of the priest's
Hand over their mouth.

A flashlight against the dark.

Dark as a septic tank in Galway,
Filled with eight hundred dead babies,
Throw away,
Like ****, because they were
Equally unwanted.

A flashlight against the dark.

Dark as a night flight
To an English abortion clinic,
Because here it's not your body,
The righteous all knowing say
"That's not how it works here".

So drink your Guinness,
Sing The Dubliners,
Watch the parade go by,
Have the craic and
Turn off your flashlight.
Mar 2017 · 229
The Visitor
Jamie F Nugent Mar 2017
My eyes shut,
My arm over her chest.
I could feel
The beat of her heart,
The flow of her blood,
The convulsions
Of her ribcage, like
Some suffacating fish.
When she jumped up,
That way she does
When her nightmares
Get the best of her.
Her nightmare stood
Beside the pillow,
Perfectly harmless,
With eight wire-like legs.
She stared with
Her widest eyes.
I told her I'll get rid of it,
But when I reached out,
It crawled away between
My bed and wall.
It entirely vanished.
I opened the blinds,
The window, and
Strached my arms down
The side of the bed,
And throw the
Imagary arachnid
Out into the world.
She asked if
I really did
Expel the spider,
She'd seen this
Track before,
I lied to her and
She asked me
To promise.

- Jamie F. Nugent
Dec 2016 · 262
Leda
Jamie F Nugent Dec 2016
Rested upon blankets of wild blossoms,
Into her arms fell a swan like a stone,
It saw fear introduced into her lungs,
Caught in moments by one moment alone,
In the white rush of past experience,
As white feathers seduced her in false guise,
Into an all far from heavenly trance,
Beneath olive trees amidst all her sighs,
As if by the roots of those ancient trees,
She was pinned up and held down by his wings,
Ignored was all of her begging and plies,
Only for this to be the fall of kings,
And then she was left like a twisted thorn,
Never knowing what battles would be born.
Nov 2016 · 290
One Winged Dove
Jamie F Nugent Nov 2016
Who broke my dove's wing?
For she does not fly now.
These days too, she'll no longer sing,
Why did this have to happen; how?

As if a house on fire,
She crumbled to pieces,
Sold to the biggest buyer,  
The outstretched arm that reaches.

Like the last drops of a ****** nose,
She spilled into the lion's pit,
All silent and morose,
All bended and split.  

My dove, my dove,
You'll soon heal your wing,
My love, my love,
With a mouth open; Sing.

- Jamie F Nugent
Nov 2016 · 416
Greyhounds
Jamie F Nugent Nov 2016
Take this safety pin of pleasure,
And ***** it under the skin,
Feel ugly bliss trickle down your spine,
And the breath of your conjoined twin.

Then chase it once more, twice more,
Like greyhounds legging after a rabbit,
Forever to be outside of an arms reach,
Downright devoid of all energy and wit.

- Jamie F Nugent
Nov 2016 · 285
Angel of Coldness.
Jamie F Nugent Nov 2016
Tie me up in daisy chains on the feathered bed,
Bury me in the white graveyard of your bare skin,
Let my bones melt in this morning rain,
Catching silver raindrop bullets between my teeth.

And at dawn, cover me in a veil of dust,
To keep me in false everlasting night,
Where no snow comes close to your body,
The enemy of icy winter.

- Jamie F. Nugent
Sep 2016 · 287
Keeping All Zen
Jamie F Nugent Sep 2016
The sun drags itself
onto the horizon,
as it does each day.

The smell of last night's rain,
still lingering mindlessly.

We are in your little black car.

I ride shotgun
      while you drive.

It's littered with papers
and opened letters
I always feel awkward
when there's no speaking
as the car's radio is broken.

Just the low rumble
of the weak engine
to fill the void of silence.

So I play out a song
in my mind and
wonder if you
simultaneously do the same.

We stop at a filling station,
where I buy breakfast and
you purchase petrol.

As you pump,
I tell the lady
behind the deli counter
what I'd like and
what you'd like.

She shoots me a
Cold glance,
It must be what
I'm wearing -
black brogues,
black drainpipes,
tweed jacket,
polka dot shirt -
Or possibly my hair -
It's too long for a boy,
yet too short for a woman - she'd think.

Country folk
like to stare,
they don't get much
to look at,

so when they do,
they want to remember it.

I say thanks
and pay
and leave.
We get back to the car,
you try to get in quick, and
end up clocking your nose with
the driver's side door.

As you sit down and
check out yourself in the mirror,
I'm surprised it's
not pouring out blood,
like a pathetic fountain.
You run a tissue across it.

-Jamie
Jamie F Nugent Sep 2016
I met her first
in the afternoon,
in May,
When the streets
were crowed with people;
living their lives.
She stood leaning
on an old green postbox.
She was a friend of a friend.
She said she had seen
my face before somewhere,
I was not so sure, I undoubtedly
would have remembered hers.
Her face was like
an actress' from the '50's,
one that was usually
reserved in black and white or
preserved in monochrome,
Bette Davis style.
But nonetheless it
was there before me,
in youth and charm.
The way she spoke and
pronounced certain
words peculiarly,
she was very like
myself in that way.
Its been said,
that if you get everyone
on Earth to stand in a line,
one by one,
that you will never find
someone just like you.
But I think that
sometimes you
come close, and
I surmise that
I came pretty close
that day.
I wanted to tell her,
but did not;
Knowing how absurd
it would sound,
I grasped it inside.
She moved
when she spoke,
just a child would
be all jittery and
unable to stand
still after too many
sugary things.
Always, there was
that that hyper-activeness
running through
her body like
electricity.
But all the while,
her voice was silk.
She had my humor too,
anytime I made jokes,
she would laugh.
It was such a
brilliant laugh,
the kind that poured out
and poured
out in big bursts
and did not give a ****
who heard
or judged.
Even when she was
slightly smiling,
you could still
see her teeth,
perfect and white,
like a toothpaste
advertisement.
She was not afraid
to look anyway at all.
Her face was
naked without makeup,
she did not paint over
any blemish at all.
She knew that people
had their flaws,
and it was those people
who laid their
flaws bare to the world,
they were the ones
the brave ones.

- Jamie F. Nugent
Aug 2016 · 268
A Good Year
Jamie F Nugent Aug 2016
You hide your love like you
Store away expensive whisky.  
"I'm sure it's where I left it"
you say, unable to recall
Where that where is now.
We search low and high,
In places obvious and not,
Under beds, atop the presses,
In cupboards and sock drawers.
But no luck, and yet and I know
You can't turn tap-water into wine,
But I still would not go thirsty
By your side, water does fine.
Now is as bad as any time
To tell you that when
I stood high on the kitchen chair,
Nearly touching the ceiling,
I found your whisky bottle,
On the presses top, like
A dust collected Excalibur.
Not a drop drank yet. Suddenly
I told myself right then that
You would be better without it,
And my mind and heart asked me
What have I done to deserve it?
Just because I am the one who
Found your love, doesn't mean that
I should be the one to drink from
The well of yourself. I would not want
Those precious mouthfuls
Wasted to a mouth like mine.
Jamie F Nugent Aug 2016
After a while, all curious ears transfixed
On us, like rusty antennas tuned in to
The music pulled out by our hands, as if
Roots from the soil, the music that
Crawled from our lungs, like some small
Sea-creatures scuttling from under rocks.

They sang in our wake, feeding us a diet
Of Cork Dry, cheers and sponge-cake,
But then, and why, I do not know, but
The feminine insults thrown between punches,
The police arrived near 4am, we left at 5 past,
To upstairs, until all cooled off and over.

As the sleepless sun peaked in the window,
The guitars ceased to be strummed,
The bodhráns ceased to be thumped, and
Like vampyes, they hid from Sunday's sunlight,
Sleeping in careless places as I sipped on a
***** so I die a little more easily.

The morning poured me coffee and put it
In front of my heavy eyes. A breakfast plate and
A basket full of cold toast. We thankfully ate,
And talked about the healing properties of lizards,
The corruption of the Catholic Church and
Just what the Hell happened last night?

-Jamie F. Nugent
Aug 2016 · 270
Love Can Be
Jamie F Nugent Aug 2016
Love can be felt as
An open heart surgery
Done by ***** hands.

Love can be seen as
Torpedoes in a fish-tank,
Ready to explode.

Love can be thought as
A massacre on the soul,
Shot in slow-motion.


-Jamie F. Nugent
Jul 2016 · 357
Chocolate
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
(For Ki)

Sitting in the windowsill
There is a small ornate
Dark purple wooden
Box of chocolates,
With frilly red lance
Binding the edges
In the shape of
A love heart, all
Geometric like
A Silphium plant -
You are the soul
Sleeping inside the
Chambers of that heart.
To be seen seldom as
You would melt
In the summer sun, and
Would break teeth
In the dead of winter.
Not often, but sometimes,
You could survive this world,
But the wonder of your taste
Is overshadowed by that need
For you to remain laying there,
In your chocolate heirloom box.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jul 2016 · 396
In Equal Measures
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
You wear shyness like a balaclava
At least we still see those eyes,
And all their infernal nirvana,
As they study the room clockwise.

Like a mental gymnasium,
You exercise my patience,
As I fill in the silence like
The staic, station to station.

Burning my fingers again,
It's just me and the ashtray,
Something of a Charlemagne,
Or least it's just feels that way.

A future full of plans defers
When you latch the door,
A completed mess stands
Disappointed in a downpour.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jul 2016 · 311
Am I?
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
Am I a fragment
In your scrapbook of regrets?

Am I the damage due
In your bills and debts?

Am I the cracks on
The mirror on your dresser?

Am I the light drizzle
In the dull weather?

Am I the tear
In your stockings?

Am I the white lie
In our sweet-talking?

Am I the sand stuck
Together in your hourglass?

Am I a tunnel into your heart
Or just the tolld underpass?

Am I the joker
In your house or deck?

Am I the bite resting
On your neck?

Am I your paintbrush
Stuck together with paint?

Am I every form
Of lost restraint?

Am I the mess at
The bottom of your purse?

Am I a set of lungs
To be submerse?

Am I still just
A rainy day?

Am I your wet ashtray?
Or dead bouquet?

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jul 2016 · 245
You Are
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
My darling,

My voodoo doll

My storm,

My calm,

My skyline,

My skin and bone,

My flesh and veins,

My April afternoon,

My Sunday morning,

My first breath,

My last mouthful,

My Spanish siesta,

My Irish coffee,

My deep wound,

My tourniquet,

My muse,

My fuse,

My nothing left to lose.

-Jamie F. Nugent.
Jul 2016 · 276
Like a Veil
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
She came
Down the staircase
In a black pencil skirt,
That contrasted her pale skin while
She blushed.



-Jamie F. Nugent
Jul 2016 · 546
Eight Day Dreaming
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
We live in this cruel cold soap opera,
You name the drama and I'll play the part,
So when I hurt you, don't take it to heart,
Booming drums of ****** for our mantra.

When first I let you inside of my arms,
I didn't think you'd stay inside my head,
Or between the creased white sheets on the bed,
Laying under the broken the smoke-alarm.

Pulled out across like piano wire,
I dragged you from the room and all its blaze,
You slept deeply and sweetly for eight days,
You're the first breath after a housefire.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jul 2016 · 315
Wilderness
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
Take me where
The grass grows
Wild and old,
And wraps around
Our legs, our
Old grey towers,
Falling into grubby
Puddles -

Take me where
Beetle bites dance
On our skin,
Like little red
Flaming kisses,
And the bee stings
Taste like
Honey -

Take me where
Frogs crawl
Around our ankles
And slugs leave
Trials of slime
On our boots,
Like some sort of
Venetian Lagoon -

Take me where,
Our fingertips
Peel and bleed,
Like sap from
The Maple trees,
Swaying away
In the almighty
Breeze -

Take me there,
Take me in the
Mornings dawn, or
This red afternoon or
Blue evening, because
I might not
Want to be there
Tomorrow-


-Jamie F. Nugent
Jul 2016 · 445
Northern Lights
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
Sitting on the floor cross-legged,
Leaning against the radiator,
We looked at one another fervently
Through opposite ends of the telescope,
Are you seeing craters on the moon?
Or just the cracked pours of my skin?
When I took my turn I looked down,
Peering into your wishing-well eyes,
That glared through the gloom, like
A kerosene fed Victorian chandelier.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
I wrote your name on steamed glass,
Condensation finger tips and a
Double glazed heart that drizzled -

I circumnavigate my room through
All the borrowed paraphernalia
Still holding your varnished aroma -

Your coffee hair,
Your coffee throat,
Under the Sun under another Sun-

Visions of the past and possible future,
Stored away in the attic of a nightmare,
Over the parlor chamber of discrepancy-

I will bite into you anytime you want,
Or even kiss half of your mouth; Subtle as
A China plate smashed to smithereens -

Others had me misshapen and crooked,
But you're the only thing that could
Contort me until I would snap and break.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jul 2016 · 289
Siren Song
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
Such a love, such a stranger is
A delusion sitting in the rocks,
Inside the water's waves,
A protruding razor-sharp
Mouth pierces the surface,
No other voice sings to me like this
Convincing doppelgänger
In tangled hair like a bird's nest -
It could not hurt that much,
The waters can't be that deep-
It is so easy to kiss lips
That are not that far away,
But In the end;
The animal dies
With fear in his eyes.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
'One glass per person' said the garçon,
I already had more then one and
Didn't really care all too much about it.
But Dayna **** that rule and
Tossed it swiftly out the hotel window.

She started to take glass by bubbly glass,
When the server had his back turned,
There she was, a silent assassin
Gulping in clandestine mouthfuls
Of twos and ones, rarely threes.

Then and only then, when that failed,
Dayna flicked the switch on her
Light-bulb of charm and it shone,
Right into the servers eyes, it shone,
Just enough for a few more glasses.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
Waiting on a friend, stuck in a meeting place -
Some people watch birds sitting in trees,
Other people watch other people existing,
I (like many others) prescribe to the latter,
All spying with little eyes wide open.

The day's sun bleeds through the grey sky,
Numbers taken notes and all minds worked out.
Studied and never they let the masks slip,
They never admit to it, and they are never hurried;
Outside of the florist that smalls of pollen and spring;

An elderly couple goes in, then, a few minutes later,
They returns with gardenias underarms, probably
For funeral for some acquaintance, family or friend,
It is not too hard to guess as much. I look on then at

Pudgy seventeen years olds addicted to coffee
Ambling by in bright outfits made for exercise;
Collecting dust like bowls of plastic carnations,
Otherwise smelling of sweat and cheap aftershave,
Just another day, just another flower-shop.


-Jamie F. Nugent
Jamie F Nugent Jul 2016
I went to her house last night,
It was a ornate little place,
With floors you want to
Walk barefoot upon.

Heavy stone walls,
Looming like doldrums,
Where I twisted to the moon,
And was teased by her blouse.

In the sitting room,
She drank *** and I gin,
Isn't it just like me
To be showing up like this?

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jun 2016 · 335
Teddy Boy
Jamie F Nugent Jun 2016
Alexandra Road is found in the sea-side town of St. Ives, England. Russell Albright was found sitting on a bench on sunny Alexandra Road reading a 'Sunday Express' dated Sunday, 8th, July, 1962. Russell was a well-known Teddy Boy around the town, a cut-above all the others for miles around, always having the tallest creepers, the most flamboyant pompadour and the slickest suit. Role model Russell was epitomized by the young mollycoddle Teddy Boys and Girls and even the one his own age of 18.

Russel Albright sat alone smoking a Marlboro Red while reading about the 1962 French Grand Prix that was held at Rouen-Les-Essarts, but before finishing he was interrupted by the voice of Miles Welch, a boy two and a half years Russell's junior. 'Hey Russ, were you at the record shop lately?' asked Miles in a small, high voice. Miles looked somewhat in awe as Russell slowly lowered the newspaper as if it was a shield. 'Not since Tuesday' Russell replied coolly. 'Oh, well they just got in that new Bobby Vinton record' Miles said quickly, then saw the intensity in Russell's eyes. 'Not that *****, Welch' sighed Russell in near disgust. Miles' eyes opened wide and he stuttered out; 'They also have the new Francoise Hardy record, Russ'. Russell let out a faint glimmer of what could be called a smile. 'That's more like it, Welch, my son' he said, as if to repair the boy's feelings. Then Russell rummaged through his breast pocket and produced a Marlboro packet. 'Wanna a cigg?' he inquired. 'Yeah, sure, thanks Russ' answered a lit up Miles, popping the little white stick between his teeth, and sat down as Russell cupped his match-holding hands to light up the end. In a mushroom-cloud of smoke, Russell stood up, tall and skinny, and cocked his head in the direction of the record down the road, 'Shall we?' he asked Miles, in a false posh manner that made Miles smile. They walked to the shop.

The record shop was owned by Marshall Chapman, and it was always never empty, there was forever a bustle of teenagers in and out, buying the latest things that were in the charts. Marshall was in his mid-forties and somewhat of a gentle giant, he never really got into any rumbles, but this was most likely because of his great stature. He was always happy to see Russell in the shop, not just because kids would see him buying a certain things, and they'd fallow-suit, but the two were good mates. 'Alright, Russy boy? bellowed Marshall, upon seeing Russell enter the shop. 'Just dynamite, Marshall, and a little birdie told me about the new Francoise Hardy that you may have', Russell said Francoise Hardy in a French accent. Marshall put his massive hands into a drawer under the desk and fished out the record for Russell,'Oh, nothing but the finest for you'. Russell looked around the shop and was stunned in the headlights of a women standing at the other end, he tried to keep his legendary cool. 'I am a miracle worker expecting a miracle right now' Russell said to Marshall, looking at the cute blonde girl, and he walked over to her. She was tall, even without the heels. Marshall watched from a distanced as Russell stood over her, whispering sometime in her ear. The two then walked towards Marshall, who handed Russell the key to the backroom.
Jun 2016 · 274
Invaders Must Die
Jamie F Nugent Jun 2016
An apocalypse of agony approaches
Like a toxic hangover,
After a self-righteous drunk, with
Propaganda spiking our drinks,
A specter is haunting -

In the hearts of heartless capitals,
Our vampire-like Leaders proclaim
From their Parliament rooftops
'Invaders Must Die!' and
History repeats itself, again.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jamie F Nugent Jun 2016
The trumpet on the kitchen table
Catches the sunlight and returns it;
Into the eyes, onto the skin,
Sweet and soundless.

There is cheap linoleum wallpaper
Trying its best to be fine stone,
It doesn't really look that bad;
When you're far enough away.

On the wall hangs a massive clock,
Ticking and toking as it does,
A few minutes too fast.

All along the counter,
There are sweet things half eaten,
And half-drank cups of tea (still warm).

In the press, the glasses are never used,
They taste too strong of dust and
The flavor will not wash away soon,
Although vain, the glasses still look nice.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jun 2016 · 321
Les Amoureux Délaissés
Jamie F Nugent Jun 2016
Les weekend amoureux,
Ils ne parlaient jamais
Tout en sobriété,
Étrangers d'ici lundi.

Pas d'amour de lui
Il veut pas son amour ou son esprit
Tout son corps en état d'ivresse.

Solitaire dans ses bras
Elle maintient la mascarade
Elle n'a rien d'autre à faire.

-Jamie F. Nugent
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