In a little pub in London,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Night came, a ***** black night with rain.
Mid-December, nineteen hundred and thirty nine,
Just a few months before ****** turned London's
sky black with lead.
But for now,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Sat solemnly in the candle-lit corner.
He gazed ruefully into his drink,
Like a haggard old grey ghost.
He was tired and felt strange and lost
in this faraway disgusting place.
The whorey smell of the city.
He felt a million and one miles away
from his home.
He was born in a little white cottage,
straw roof, on a small tragic island
off the West of Ireland;
Just a few stone-trows away from
the sleepy fishing village of the
village of Kinsheenlan.
Moriarty had often written letters to
his lonesome mother dearest,
but instead of tossing the letters
into gloomy London post-boxes,
he would post them into
the pub's fireplace.
Fuel for his shame.
Alas, the curse of drink had taken
over his soul and mind.
The sweet poison was now
his only pleasure,
his only softness.

So there he sat, drinking the Devil's drop,
like a mop soaks up spills on the counter-top.
And blowing out sliver smoke rings
all through those long winter nights.
Give to Moriarty to drink mandragora,
until he becomes muddied and slow.
Those rose colored glasses that he had
on for so long now,
they were not going to shield him forever.
As he transfixed his eyes on his beer,
he heard a voice,
a wondrous voice,
at first he thought it lay alone in his mind,
but it was coming from down the hallway,
the sounds of a young maiden's song,
wild and free.
It made his heart feel the substance of his life.
That fabulous blue center-light delight of song.
Sounding so alike to his sister Betty.
It shook him to his core.

Moriarty, the poor lost soul,
had not seen his sister in twenty odd years.
He recalled their last meeting.

The ship has set sail into an ocean, black and calm.
Just that morning, Moriarty got the letter from his mother,
Handwritten in felt tip, slightly stained with a tear,
Telling him to keep warm and stay safe,
To fill his stomach and fill his pockets.

As his sister stood on Dublin's docks to see him off and wish him well
She shrinks with the distance growing between and
She looks twelve and three quarter years younger than she did that day,
The little girl who Moriarty fought with all the live long day over nothing.
Now, she was the women who put up a fight over his sailing away.
Sometimes, brothers and sisters never change.

She knew that this was for the best, but she would never admit that,
Not with words,
She felt her words, weightless would have just sailed right away with him.
Moriarty wondered what she will look like if he seen her again,
Will she have received wrinkles from worrying about mother?
Will her chestnut hair have turned white as the snow burying her bare feet?
And now
Betty was all Moriarty's mother had, after Moriarty's father,
a fisherman, drowned that awful November night.

Then, just as Moriarty thought of his ghostling past,
there came the question
'Are you going home for Christmas, dear?'
Asked the barmaid,
Her words dripping like honey into Moriarty's half-empty-glass.
'Sure, I have not been to Ireland in an age, but I know for certain
that my mother is waiting for me with arms open' Moriarty answered.
But he was unsure if his own poor mother would recognize him
for it had been so long.
But just then, Moriarty heard the Christmas-bell-like-voice of
the women standing, singing in the hallway.
The past came into consciousness like a flood.
And in the corner of his eye,
there glazed, the starting of a tear.
Moriarty pushed aside his beer glass-half-full and
said to himself
'I shall be home for Christmas day'.

After two weeks, long weeks
Gone drink nor smoke,
Moriarty have sharped up enough pounds and pennies
to bring him to his home of Ireland.
And while on that train through the lands, green and beautiful,
The deeper into the West Moriarty went
the stronger he felt it,
a beat, beat, beat that thumped and rang out in his chest.
Night fell by the time Moriarty set foot in Kinsheelan,
The church bells rang true and strong sixfold.
Moriarty was unrecognized by the sailor Tomas Bawn,
As he climbed into the little white boat
to sail home across the calm, blue, winter-waters,
to that same white cottage.
Tomas Bawn heard Moriarty as he said to himself
in little more then a whisper
'Thank God above, I shall be home for Christmas day'.


In a little pub in London,
Moriarty's abode,
By the hallway door,
A letter, unread,
Laid upon the floor, It read-

'Oh dear Danny,
Our poor mother has passed.
The funeral will take place
In Kinsheelan church
After mass
On Christmas day'.




-Jamie F. Nugent

That's not an anklet,
It's a ball and chain,
It might look pretty,
But it has you trapped.

The longer you wear it,
The deeper the scar,
The darker the bruise,
Just remember, in your hand,
You have the key.

It's never too late to get out.

-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

Oh what a band of brothers we were,
The fantastic fraternal eternal gang.

Long sun-soaked summer daze,
The bunch of us, sometimes
Sitting legs folded under a parasol,
Telling stories and jokes
Beyond our years;

And then water fights,
We, the little soldier boys,
Armed with plastic pistols,
Rainbow coloured balloons,
Or super soakers,
Nobody ever won because
Nobody ever gave in,
Everyone was soaked,
Right to the bone.

Near endless evenings,
We played on the green,
Football, tag, 42, curbs,
We played on the green,
Even when the cold stung us,
Even when our skin glowed blue,
We played on the green,
Only until our mothers
Called for us to come in,
Time for tea,
Then time for bed and
A Bo Peep.

Oh what a band of brothers we were,
The fantastic fraternal eternal gang.

-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

I

Bright blues and youthful yellows induce a daze of derealization,
Heavy haptic perfumes fill the nose,
All that is heard is soft music and softer chatter,
Standing among the spring dresses,
Feeling like an odd hallow mannequin,
As pretty girls and ugly women pass by,
The dumb blonde fakely smiles to my aunt;
Who holds up a spring dress.

II

It it Ireland's biggest lingerie section I understand,
I read that....somewhere...



-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

So polite and shy,
She's lived with me a week now,
I still know nothing.

-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

Moments of surpassing loveliness,
That you compose like a symphony,
That are twice as gorgeous,
And threefold as complex.

You have fire with in yourself,
Pretty little flames.
You contain this beat,beat, beat!
Tribal percussion,
Drumming all through the night.

With the grace of your wrist,you throw
These pink paper airplanes,
With inviting invitation on the inside,
They glide through the winter air,
Until they fall upon my doorstep

-Jamie F. Nugent

Our anxious eyes fade,blue and calm
As I attentively close the door in our wake
You glow in darkness,
Smouldering inferno,
Eternal vertigo,
Holding a kiss until the cramping muscles
In our lips overpower and subdue us both,
Bite my heart,
Gnaw on my soul,
As I Shakespeareanly
Nail down your hands and
Pin your wrists,
Triumphant Crucifixion,
Your instant flushing cheeks,
Blushing with blood,
Brooding with ardour,
Warmth, warmth, warmth.

Jamie F. Nugent

Famous in War,
Famous in Bloodshed,
Famous in Heartbreak.

Stitch my scars,
Feel my heart sink,
Watch me fall and
Drown in memories.

How do you remember me?
Is it how I remember you?
The way the room lit up,
When you entered it.

Bright as a summer's day,
Bright as a winter's city night,
Christmas lights,
Covered in snow.

Never lacking in lustier,
Inseparable frozen hands,
Not wanting to let go,
Never wanting to give in.

That burn I get,
In the back of my throat,
From licking your flame.

I still see you the same way,
But in different places,
The bachelorette who
Drives past in her car,
In my opposite direction.

For a short moment in those
Shy girls, who glance out at life,
Through the same big,
Thick-rimmed glasses.

In the songs we once song
To one another,
All seeming like
A lifetime ago.

I hope that these days,
You are overjoyed,
Never again
To be so destroyed.

Destroyed by War,
Destroyed by Bloodshed,
Destroyed by Heartbreak.

- Jamie F. Nugent

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
"Treat-or-Treat?!";
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.

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

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

It is 10 am,
My curtains are drawn,
Blinds shut,
All light shut out.
We fell apart,
I am falling apart,
But everything will,
Given time,
Even the Mona Lisa
Is falling apart
Her smile, like mine
Is slowly fading now
But is anything truly beautiful
If it lasts forever?

- Jamie F. Nugent

We died of old age at age seventeen,
With a thousand years worth of dust in our eyes,
If am an oak tree, you will always be evergreen.

Submerged in the deep in our submarine,
Without fear of a wreck or a capsize,
We died of old age at age seventeen.

You look the same as when we met by the marine,
You kept your fear of spiders and butterflies,
If am an oak tree, you will always be evergreen.

You have always cut straight to the point like a guillotine,
You would indulge in love songs as I tried to harmonise,
If am an oak tree, you will always be evergreen.

Stretch out those arms and let me crawl between,
And improvise a half-dozen lullabies that will paralyze.
We died of old age at age seventeen.
If am an oak tree, you will always be evergreen.

-Jamie F. Nugent

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

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

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

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

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

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.

These boots,
Black and dusty,
Cracked leather, like
The face that smokes
Forty cigarettes a day.
A ripped soul,
From a previous life.
Looks, that cut me,
Under my ankle;
But I will wear you
Anyway, and
I will let you
Wear me out,
Regardless

Jamie F. Nugent

The black cloud will shroud
The multicoloured rainbows -
A hard rain is going to fall -
The honey bear won't wake
From her hibernation,
She will dream of placing
Her paws into golden beehives.

The swallows will migrate swiftly
To African shores of green and blue,
They won't be coming back soon.

Our black-cloud sky
Will be composed of ravens and crows,
Squawking tuneless nocturnes
Whilst pecking at our windowpane.

Where are our rainbows?
Where is our sunshine?
Where have our honey bears
And our swallows gone?


-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

I thought I heard you cry,
From the other side of this crowded room.
Though I could not see you through the crowd,
The sound is more clear and present
Then any other in this frowzy room,
Louder than the half-dozen doltish conversations,
Louder then the raindrops crashing on the window pane
Louder than the wind, as it howls outside threateningly ,
Louder than my own thoughts in my erratic head,
They scream "I did this", and yell " this is my fault".
Your would-be tears make me doubt myself
And question my very nature.

-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

Just give me a snow-day,
So I won't endure a slow day,
Toss me a snowball,
Resurrect me a snowman,
Anything you could do to
freeze this humdrum dullness,
And knock over the hourglass,
Anything at all.

-Jamie F. Nugent

She leaned back on the black couch,
we merge like gumdrops melted and gnarled;
sticky with sweat, long legs in a nightgown,
the bridal gown she wears
uncertain of whose bride she is;
she struggles at playing chess with her feet,
I struggle with my hands,
look at me, I could never win,
but if she knew the toil I was in,
would she laugh?
She has always had a nice smile.

-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

'Doctor, well the problem is...
I can't get 'it' up...
' confessed the man, embarrassingly.
'Would this be...all the time...or just in the bedroom?'
pondered the doctor.
'See, I really only get 'it' up once a day,
just before lunch, actually, and if the wife isn't on it right then and there.....then I'd have to wait 'till the following day.....
it's the choice between
******* or having a warm sausage' he said
'Well, don't fret' assured the doctor
'I get this exact compliant more then you'd think'
'Oh?' the man sounded, feeling less shame now.
The doctor peered through his glasses
'But I'll need to see a photograph'.
The man's eyelids opened wide and wild.
'.......of your wife' finished the doctor.
'You need to?...what?' asked the man.
'Oh yes,I'll need to see what you're working with here'
answered the doctor,
'I mean,before an accurate diagnostic can be made' he said,
saving himself.
The man produced his wallet and showed the doctor a wedding photograph.
'A current photo' the doctor said.
'Ah,yes,that does make more sense' said the man.
He took his phone from his jacket pocket and
showed the doctor his wallpaper with his wife's full figure in it.
The doctor looked for a moment and then said
'well, I'm afraid all the drugs in the world aren't going to help to you'.

-J.F.N.

I clean when I'm stressed,
The house is spotless right now,
I just try my best.

-Jamie F. Nugent

Wake up love,
Fur-coat on your tongue,
Wake up love,
Close together and far apart,
Dusty sleep in your eyes,
Restriction cut into fragments,
Morning fills streams of conciseness,
Last-night's dreams still falling from your head,

Dreams;

Sweet things, those dreams.


-Jamie F. Nugent

My sweet Maria,
You are my marina,
My little ocean swell,
Are you feeling unwell?
Give me your flu,
Golden French horns
Ringing out for you ,
Fold away your cold,
Solid gold, you've glowed,
Take all your symphonic coughs,
And bury them in a box,
A coughing coffin,
Under keys and locks.

-Jamie F. Nugent

She flung her cigarette
Into the fireplace,
Then tried to heat her hands,
It was a miserable fire ablaze.

The turf was barely dry,
It floundered about the fireplace,
But it was the only turf left, and
She'd not dare turn on the oil heating.

She sat sadly in the sitting room,
The ceiling was collapsing and
The walls were caving in,
At least
The wallpaper is still nice,
thought she.

She remembered when she had bought it -
The sunflower pattern wallpaper sheets
Brightened up the room and all in it.

And now,
That it was just her,
Why did
the house
feel so
small?


-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

While I glance across the road
You're there looking bored
It's me your walking toward,
Tell me something you've adored,
And I'll tell you something that I hate,
All these feelings that are poured,
All those chances too late,
When they are laid to rest,
You hope for the best,
But you expect the worst
Because you think you should &,
You feel that you must
When there's no one you trust,
Except your mother & aunts,
And your pen pal in France,
Because she's not lost in lust,
She's just too scared to love
& you feel the same,
Like life is just this game,
That goes on & on,
Your head weighs a tonne,
Because you're still not done,
Deciding where to run,
When you run away,
when you don't want to play,
This game anymore,
It's really such a bore,
It sends slivers to your core,
It quivers down your spine,
You have your worries,
And I have mine,
But I still would not mind,
Spending some time,
With you,
I'll be true,
Through & through,
Never stumble,
I'll never fall,
I will just call,
Out for you,
All that I drink,
Is water from your sink,
Along with the pill,
That stops me from being ill,
That sails down my throat,
Like a barge or a boat,
I swallow it down,
Along with my pride,
I've everything to say,
I've nothing to hide,
And I would have lied
If I were to say
'You did not take all of my
Breath away'
When you smile that way
From across the street,
Where our eyes meet,
I become undone,
I will run
Over to you,
My darling one.

-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

'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

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.

Standing, ankle deep
In Snapdragons, through red lips,
She's spitting out  flames.

-Jamie F. Nugent

I Cannot Comprehend
You feeling the bitter
Need to Mess with my head
With little expressions
Like 'I Miss You',
Maybe you should
Pled Guilty instead,
Darling it comes as
No surprise, that I
Despise these lies that you
Tell yourself and your friend,
To try and make the
Means justify the End,
It was not that you
Went and came, it's just
This Self Righteous mind-game
That you play,
So take your Uncontrollable aim
For William Tell,
Bow in hand,
Final Fare Thy Well, as you
You place the apple
On my head and try to
Rid of Mistakes you Made,
But Nothing will taste Sweeter
And Nothing will look Neater,
Just a mountain of the
Finest Rotten Fruits
Pulled from ****** stalk
And Lifeless Root,
This Skinny Love was just a
Labour of Lust,
That was sooner than later
Bound to Lurch, Burst and Bust,
This Faltering Ripple of Neglect,
If our ship was once afloat,
It is now most certainly Wracked.

- 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

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

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

I tried to work out the back of your mind,
Through a microscope eyepiece,
But just ended up gazing through a kaleidoscope,
I wanted to feel your skeletal notches, &
I wanted the scent of your perfume in my lungs, &
To look into your eyes;
Dilating in a summer sun.

-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

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

Worshipping and demonized,
Force fed and forbidden,
Since stone age,
Interwoven irreversibly,
Hands in air, like
Trying to stab the night's sky.

You dance like snakes would,
You maintain an ironic hipster pose
For everyone, at all times,
Standing, bright in this
Dingy old house.

Blowing air kisses and out
Sliver smoke rings, all night long,
You are the gum snapping stranger,
Pacing up and down the hall,
Wearing a tight t-shirt
With daises,
And tighter jeans.

Calling for your taxi
In the near morning,
From the door, in freezing rain
You somersault from place to
New and exciting place,
Give to you to drink mandrogora,
Until you are muddied and slow,
Like a double-decker bus.

Hypnotic and hallucinogenic,
Unsure if this is legal,
As if you really care,
Thinking you are so very
******* like some
Witchdoctor or Voodoo Priest,
This was not what you expected,
The journey through the living room walls.

-Jamie F. Nugent