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

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

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

'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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

Ro was one of
The prettiest girls
I have ever known,
Her smile was never faked,
Her eyes were rarely anger,
She exuded happiness -
She did not even care
About style or fashion,
She would wear whatever
Fell from her wardrobe first,
She did this unpretentiously,
Never 'trying' to seem nonchalant
As all her cloths were plain
Yet cool as vanilla,
But on the nights outs;
Ro looked like something else,
You should have seen her
With her glasses off and
Her, in her make-up and dress,
She was almost a different girl -
Ro baked cakes, but to say that
Would be an understatement,
They were not 'just' cakes,
They were flowers in pots,
Animals in spring, birds
And trees, and anything else
She could imagine - To me
Ro always seemed to be
More of an artist then a baker -
I hope that some day,
She'll open a little shop
That sells cakes decorated
By her kind hands,
Because I know that
That is Ro's own modest dream,
Because I know that
That would make Ro smile.

-Jamie F. Nugent

All I have to do is dream -
You sang in quivering vibrato ,
By the sparse light of a lamp
That shone phosphorescent
Onto your anatomy
All wrapped up loosely
In a black buttoned-up sweater,
Knee high socks and
Uncovered thighs,
Tender and shaking -
And if there is only -This-
Here, and now,
It is more then enough for me,
The fortress for two,
The cornerstone and
The dancer.

-Jamie F. Nugent

(I remember)

Your lips when red,
Your room and its mess,
Your shoulders hung dead,
Your birthday dress -

Our hands together,
Our sleepless nights,
Our plans together,
Our pointless fights.

-Jamie F. Nugent

We walked along the strand,
High up on the cliff,
We went on hand-in-hand,
Watching the swell foam drift -

The Atlantic kissed the horizon,
The way I kissed you on the coast ,
To words on benches we were drawn,
I felt sitting down there was some ghost-

Words written for our expecting eyes,
That told us that matter what we did or do
That everybody here sooner or later dies,
Just encase you had not already knew.

-Jamie F. Nugent

The tulips laid in a purple flower-***,
On the dresser top the way she laid
On velvet sheets of a big brass bed;
The radio-void was filled up gently
With classical music and static,
And her innocence showed
In the way she ****** on
A strawberry lollipop
Under velvet sheets
Of the brass bed.

-Jamie F. Nugent

We lifted the gates to move them
Over towards the hey-shed,
Spanning out our arms
As to balance the great weight,
Then we fixed them into place,
With twine and knots -
Sharpened a knife with a side-stone
To cut apart a hey-bail
Into more manageable parts      
Then we tossed in in to the pen,  
For nine Holstein calves -

-Jamie F. Nugent

She thought to herself,
"What if I am tired
Of living in a dream.
What would it be like
To wake up and
Everything stayed as it did seem."
She needed light
For that was the way she dealt,
Though truly she felt
That eyes look more beautiful
In the dark,
For then you can not see
How much they lack a spark.
The more of herself
This moment is taking,
Inside she is surely not making
Anything worth keeping,
Only a future that is breaking.
The thought of this
Always leads to her shaking.
Will they ever come back to this place?
The light shines now on a figure
She swore she could trace,
Which she knows will ruin her heart,
Yet she loves the way it makes it race -
How that beating-heart of hers
Rushed swift like some
Rachmaninoff Concerto,
How that mind of hers,
Waltzed around the room,
Not-knowing where to go,
Into those arms, and just
Linger there like an overnight
Stay at a luxury hotel,
And she will go and come,
Like waves on the naked shore,
Swelling toward tenderness,
The sun is forever orange there-
Now the figure is in focus,
Rushing her off her soles,
She never asked where -

- Lola Rose & Jamie F. Nugent

Please teach me that
Things are not always bad.
Please teach me that
Our endings won't
Always be sad -
Help me find warmth
When times are cold -
Tell me a story of hope
That I have never been told,
Turn my rusty heart into gold -
Stay sitting still my little silhouette,
Just let me convince you that
It's not time to go home yet,
We'd be each others' shadows,
Even in this pitch-black night,
We'd be those people that we've
Only heard about,
Who'd had each-other to hold tight,
Help me to focused my heart
As it were a telescope
Catching the light of your galaxy,
And to fit it in to this puzzle, my counterpart,
For we shall always and ever have hope,
More then enough to fill a sea -


- Lola Rose & Jamie F. Nugent

Physically falling apart
Like pound shop Barbies do
After a touch too much -
Love letter paper cuts
Juxtaposed between
Some sordid sore fingers,
The scarlet blood that gushes
Brilliant like a sun-set,
Twitching and gloaming
In, our and around
Consciousness like it is
Revolving door,
Spinning,
Spinning,
Spinning
On ballerina feet,
Turned pink to scarlet,
Made misshapen
By dances
Of rapture
And grace-

-Jamie F. Nugent

It's always  
so vacant
It's always
so empty inside,
When there is
plenty, and
When there is
plenty to hide -

I love you,
but
sometimes
I mess up,
clasp onto
Apologies
that fit
in a cup -

It's always  
the exact same,
When we (again)  
play this game,
like puppet and
puppeteer,
There's no winner
(or loser) here,
just an imperfect
trifling heart,
Then we go  
right back  
to the start -

-Jamie F. Nugent

You are the Dove,
My thing with clipped wings,
I cannot soothe you from confines
That are interposed around you and I,
I surrender and crumble at your feet,
Under love and love's weight,
This avalanche falling into place,
Creature that can't leave -

You are the Swan,
Fleshy feather-breasted thing,
My crept-up companion,
Tired and ridiculous,
That badly mistook my nature,
That chewed me to the bone,
And stopped when I became bitter,
Creature I left -

You are the Hummingbird,
Gorgeous and fragile,
My unfamiliar hand when yours gripped,
Graciously showed me up the staircase,
At the foot, we stood on the flight,
And subsided to where we'd not be seen,
I could quite touch you from where you where,
Creature perched atop this heart -

-Jamie F. Nugent

We are two Manet portraits,
Hanging in a Parisian gallery,
Expect I think I might be a forgery,
Only worth my frame,
I wish I were the real thing,
But instead, I am just
Your fraudulent imitation,
But I feel fine by your side -
You are Berthe Morisot,
Holding a Bunch of Violets,
And I am the Boy
Carrying a Sword -
And down the hall,
A da Vinci dissipates,
Oh, joy for our youth,
And at the other end,
A Warhol silkscreen
Waits in adolescence.

-Jamie F. Nugent

A breezeless kite,
On the beds edge,
Daydreams in a coma -
With Jazz
For my ears,
And jelly
To sweeten -
All my guts
Spilled out
Like sour milk,
And my thoughts
Filled up
Like some closet
Of old cardigans,
Woolen, soft
And ugly
In this dead heat -
And somewhere
A cardboard-town
Is falling apart,
On top of itself
In the rain -
Oh, what I'd give
To be a supernova
Or just a kite
Flying in the breeze.

-Jamie F. Nugent

Scott Greene was a man of vast wealth, and also of vast anger and sadness. His wealth he inherited from his late father, or rather, the company that his founded, a leading manufacturer of contact lenses. His anger and sadness he inherited from his wife, Mary, or rather, an argument that they had. Mary had found a brazer not belong to her, all black-laced and in measurements suited for a slimmer, not doubt, younger woman. In the past several weeks leading up to the find, Mary had a great suspension of Scott's jilted ways, and now after cleaning under the bed, Mary had finally found tangible proof of her husband's paramour. The fight ensued the movement Scott came from his daily grind. With a livid Mary holding up Scott's lover's garment in a fist clenched so tightly it turned reddish and throbbed. The underwear was displayed like evidence like a courtroom. How Scott wished for a lawyeresque individual who would lie for him and talk his way of all this. But, alas, feeling unlucky and alone, like a Magpie, Scott just wanted to fly away from all of this, or swim, or dig and crawl away through the dirt. Scott just stood there in the high-ceilinged mansion hallway as Mary, his once lover, screamed awful and ugly things at him. Scott had stopped listening, instead wondering how long she could keep up screaming until she felt that red piercing pain in her throat and could not stand to scream any longer. However curious, Scott was adamant to find out, instead opting to leave and go anywhere that wasn't where he was right then.

Scott yelled, depressed by his own voice, that he was going for a drive. Coldly, Mary called him spineless, the worst thing she could think of. She waited for Scott to leave, then started to cry alone in the near-empty house. Scott, still dress in fine gray suit from work, walked briskly past his horses in the stable to his garage, and into his favorite car, the Rolls Royce, Phantom. Nothing but the finest. Scott turned the ignition on and turned the radio up to try and clear his aching head.

Scott drove to an all-night diner just out of the town. After what seemed like mere seconds, Scott was there. As he opened the diner door, a bell chimed. Looking around with that eyes that darted around the room left-to-right as if watching a tennis game, Scott found that his only company was the staff and a few large truck drivers who stared and made Scott feel out of place. He sat away from them, at the other end of the place. A young, dark-haired waitress came to take his order. "What'll be, sweetie?" she queried, "Coffee, black" Scott answered, looking her in the eyes. He thought her eyes very pretty, yet having a little gloom in them too. Scott got a quick look at the name-tag draped on her breast before she walked away; It read Jane. Scott watched her walk away, her slender splendor and eyeing her legs and lower thighs poking out of her seductively short work skirt. Scott flirted with the notions of flirting with her. After all, what was left to lose?

He thought to himself. But after opening his wallet to pay for the coffee, the little photo-both snapshot of Mary he kept inside his wallet make him think twice. On the reappearance of the radiant waitress, she asked Scott if that would be all he wanted. "Yeah, I'm good for everything else" Scott said. As the waitress walked away, Scott stared at the spoon on his saucer. Its contoured reflection showed his face silvery, upside-down and all stretched out and bent. Scott then looked at the design on the wall next to him. The pattern was of hula dancing girls playing red ukuleles. Scott's mind rushed back to his and Mary's Hawaiian honeymoon, years ago. How the honeymoon was truly over. Scott began to drink his coffee, it was pleasant. Scott picked up a salt shaker from the tabletop. He swerved it in his hand and looked at the salt inside, overlapping on top of itself. Suddenly, Scott felt so small and valueless, and that he belonged inside the shaker, buried underneath the salt, away from everything, he thought is surely easier than everything. Scott finished his cup and thought it time to return home.

Scott excited the tragic diner, got into his car, and drove home. While driving through the driveway, he noticed the bedroom lights still on. He thought Mary must only be going to bed just now. Scott would wait a few moments before entering and then go to sleep in the guest bedroom. Mary was a heavy sleeper. In the meantime, Scott parked the car and then walked to the stables to visit his favorite horse, April, who a colossal Clydesdale with a glossy brown coat with a snow-white mane. Scott went into the stall, he slowly began to brush her mane. He knew there was no point in talking to her, but did so, just feeling good getting the words out. Scott told the great animal his worries, fears, and hopes. After a while, Scott started to feel his eyes heavy, and thoughts of going to bed seemed satisfying. In a sleepy stumble, he reached out and suddenly touched the horse, saying fondly "Goodnight, April". Then everything went to black. Early the next morning, Mary found Scott on the stable floor, his skull in several pieces from April's startled kick.

She wept.

But life's just like that,
Sometimes you open
the kitchen door
to let out a bee,
and a wasp flies in.

Drainpipes,
sticking tight to legs,
old news,
Rain wipes away
brown dirt from black shoes.
Your tragic bow and arrow,
made from my bone marrow,
Your magic aim,
where you hit your mark,
no matter how narrow.
Sailing down streams
made of necessary day dreams,
Failing to fail schemes
of winning,
by any means.
You have the only two
possessions worth having,
beauty and youth.
Moments in time,
frozen by a photo-both.
You know it can never
stay this way,
Not even looking the same
as you did yesterday.

-
Jamie F. Nugent

The mongrel lays stow in drowse
In her wooden colorless doghouse,
With five half-blooded pups;
Tussling softly and loose-limbed,
Ringroundabout at her breast -
The rain has surged at last,
This world is now grey yet beautiful,
This drizzle of cloudburst
Gushes and rushes like a nosebleed -
The unapproachable splendor
of the empyrean coming undone
(Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronn-
konnbronntonnerronntuonnt­hunnt-
rovarrhounawnskawntoohoo-
hoordenenthurnuk)
Oh what a chocolate-box day
For five-tuplet pups , black as coal,
White as a swan and brown as oak
to be tussling softly in.


- Jamie F. Nugent

Put your blue silk dress for me,
Until I can see just how it fits,
In this grand old scheme of things -

When you grow old, as will I too,
I will ask you, a little louder of voice -
Put on your blue silk dress for me -

I will love your creases, your slight tears,
And all your colors then faded,
They won't seem any less bright to me -

I will cherish all of them,
As I cherish all of you, fresh as rain,
At this moment of moments, you in

These simple threads of a worm's silk,
Dawned upon such complex a creature,
Impossible grand thing, you are -

In heels high, spoiling your feets' shape,
Standing tall, if not just taller then me,
Abandoning your blue silk dress for me.

-Jamie F. Nugent

In the brisk night air of the city,
The crowd in the bar and the music
Spill out into the street like stale beer.

Sharing drinks and discussions
With Swedes and rock n' rollers,
Surprisingly found delightful.

No lack of slumber will slow us,
The nighthawks flying close over
The gulls swimming in the grimy river,

And on a second stolen glance,
Sometimes the world is so small,
So pleasurable, so far and so good.

-Jamie F. Nugent

The amount of times,
I've nearly burned this house down,
"Accidentally".

-Jamie F. Nugent

Kids count kisses in Liverpool,
Romancing their way through school,
Boys whispering to the liars by streetlight,
Softly dancing with the girls tonight.

Sixteen rooms fall into place,
All the boys, they grab at Grace,
Louise can't hold on to her hair;
She touches a cigarette,
Smokes a pair.

Necklaces taking gently,
I stop to taste the smiles,
Frowning skeleton resents me,
She should stop for a while.

Sitting slowly,
The velvet petticoat sings,
Running underground,
Wineglass without wings
Cheap windows feel the high heels,
Dancefloor crawling, we're made of steel.

Necklaces taking gently,
Stop to taste the smiles,
Frowning skeleton resents me,
She should caress me for a while.

-Jamie F. Nugent

You stood like
A hundred dominoes;
At the foot of my bed, like
At the foot of Vesuvius,
The permanent
Shadow puppets
You left on my walls,
Of Snow Leopards and
Yellow-Eyed Penguins, in
Wilderness,
Smelling of magnolias
And silk.  

-Jamie F. Nugent

Your sharp tongue
moving behind your teeth,  
I felt it roar and clamor
in tumults of confusion,
In a hullabaloo of
hurly-burly upheaval,
The wickedness is as
heavy on my shoulders;
As it is on yours,

Against my mouth
yours did beat and bicker,
This flickering bedside-lamp
of bedlam disarray,
Revenge is ice-cream
when you and I scream,
Too sweet and too sticky,
I feel full of sickness
and sorrow,

Don't we deserve
our just desserts
A little less
nauseating?

-Jamie F. Nugent

Loveless,
Love-letters,
That's what I'll send you,
That's what you'll send me.

Endless;
Dead end streets,
That's where I'll send you,
That's where you'll meet me.

Sleepless,
Insomniatic coffee-water drips until
It will dry up in the morning,
When the sun hits.

When the sun hits,
They will no place to hide away,
No lachrymose place to run to,
When the sun hits.

-Jamie F. Nugent

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

Breaking glasses,
Smashing plates,
Spilling hot food across the carpet,
Chilled white wine, splashing on the tabletop,
The chef shouts and holds a knife,
The women and her children,
Seeking a hiding place
Under dinner tables and tablecloths,
The sounds of his screams are
Glossed by the smooth jazz through the walls,
His rag-time tantrum,
He was done taking orders
And all he got
Was a wine bottle
On the back of the head.

-Jamie F. Nugent

In the nick of time,
You held a candle
To my hands - trembling
Just before my
Fingers turned blue;
I allure into
Your flickering flame,
Heating my bones.
The dogeared pages
Of your open book,
I could be your bookmark
For a while,
Just until the last chapter.

--Jamie F. Nugent

We swam out to
The lake's center,
Just to get away
From the rest,

We swam out to
Our little handmade
Island, floating still
Like a dead whale,

We feel into a siesta,
and woke up
Sun-burnt
And glad.

- Jamie F. Nugent

These nights are so sleepless,
When you're in such deep bliss,

Sometimes love feels so loveless,
When we're so turtledoveless,

These kisses are so painless,
It almost feels aimless,

These fingers of mine,
Right down your spine,

Under trees,
Under a star,
Hidden beneath,
Those rain-clouds of ours.

But I still let out some sighs,
Long after goodbyes,

The sooner I'm gone -
Sooner you can get on,

Forget all about me, dear,
Like a ghost that was never here,

We might fall in love someday,
But for now, we're strangers come Monday.

He perched on the edge of the bed,
a study in confusion and misery.
He landed badly, and crawled away.
Then rose and got dressed.
He had slept the sleep of the innocent
and he drowsed away the morning -
He strolled to the window to drink in the view.
Swallowing his first coffee cup's worth
and smoking his last cigarette fondly,
he had a gone feeling when in wonder,
How long has it been since
she left the house, the room, the bed?
He had ought to turned her away
but was always too soft-hearted.
He still told himself that
this would be the last time.

-Jamie F. Nugent

in this
mornings's
corridor,
there were
no smiles,
no frowns,
just lips -
in sorrowful
straight lines,

all of us,
the same
thoughts,
the same
feeling,
all of our
numb minds
put into a
rosewood
box.

- Jamie F. Nugent

The South African sun caused my
Eleven year old eyes to squint.
Sat in the stadium, my father and I,
Sweated and watched rugby;
A father - daughter tradition.
That Saturday afternoon was the final,
The stands were crowded and full,
Like a fish-tank ready to burst
At any moment.
In front of my father and I,
There sat a dark-haired woman
In a lose fitting jersey.
About forty minutes in,
She bent down, sudden and quick,
Her head, hitting her kneecaps,
She screamed her intense screams;
Muffled in her own bent body,
Some spectators thought her crazy,
She continued her whails, and soon
A small crowd grew in front of us,
One man pulled her straight in her seat,
Her hands, her face, her her legs and stomach
Were all drenched red with blood.
No one ever heard the gunshot;
They traced it back to its origin,
Two hundred meters away,
Fired from a building by the stadium.
The bullet just happened to land where it did,
And the game went on.


- Jamie F. Nugent

He was a Beatle and she was a Stone,
She was a Pistol and he was a Ramone.

On the street where
The birds actually tweeted,
The bees did indeed buzz,
That street smelling of
Sweet grease
From the chip shop,
That is where
He held her hand,
And just to watch,
Gave me knots
In my insides,
The way he pulled her
And dragged her,
Showing off
His property
To the world.

-Jamie F. Nugent

This night is so sleepless,
This love feels so lovless,
These kisses are so painless.

Under trees,
Under stars,
Hidden behind
Rain-clouds.

To still feel fingers of yours,
Down my spine,
Long after our goodbyes,
Gives bliss.

-Jamie F. Nugent

She once read me her poems,
But the knotical ones,
Not the ones that revealed
Her tragic secrets or past.

That was when I know
She would sooner see me
Become her castaway
On a desert island,
Then on her ship,
Sailing away,
Or standing with her
Hand in hand,
On a beach,
Throwing stones
Into the sea.

I could feel the water seeping through
And knew that our shipwreck
Wasn't too far away or too long now.

And after all out simplicity
After our final curtain fell,
I was just left standing in the dark,
On top of the parts and pieces
Of her sombre ship,
That I stole from her
Like a kiss,
She watched me sail away
As I watched her sink.

-Jamie F. Nugent.

At times, we were
Statues in a museum gallery -
Crumbling -
I took pieces from you,
And you from me,
But we always felt
Empty-handed; after
La petite mort.

Still, some our days were
Perfect afternoons spent
Swimming in the late,
Or sometimes the river,
When the sun beat down,
In orange boxing gloves,
Melting you and I,
Like butter on toast.

- Jamie F. Nugent

People live in the shadows
Of each other,
People ride on the coattails
Of each other,
People hand out their
Fairweather friendships
To each other,
(But only temperately)
People build walls around
Each other,
And around themselves,
Some people will **** you
With a smile,
Or a kiss,
That drags you down to
The deepest frozen depts,
Until you're at the bottom
Right with all the rest.

- Jamie F. Nugent

I am trying to drown out these thoughts of you,
With the crescendo of a piano,
As it weeps in the key of C minor,
And by the pluck of string
After ***** string,
The drone of musettes melancholic,
The THUMP and SMASH of drums,
Getting louder all the time,
Until this room shakes;
Then I'm not the only thing shaking,
I can't feel it in my head,
Just the magnificent thunder in my chest,
And the pounding thud in my stomach,
I wonder how much I can truly take?
I doubt it is much more then this,
I am giving up this fight,
I can't make your heart like mine,
No matter how hard I try,
There will be no encore.    

-Jamie F. Nugent