I look real handsome,
In the blind-spot of your eye,
Don't move a muscle.


-Jamie F. Nugent

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

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

Past-Midnight, post-agrument, pre-dawn,
You make a sudden entrance in this somber room,
Without words or warning,
Your head is buried deep in my shoulder;
You still remain speechless,
But your tears speak volumes,
You wear those teardrops on your cheek
Like the soft silk res dress you wore whilst
Taking my arm and leading me to a rock n' roll dance-floor,
Sway, Sway, Sway in this blaring ballroom,
Sway, Sway, Sway in my arms as you shake, break, weep,
But it will be better in the morning,
When the sun is up,
When your head is clear,
When your mind is right.
Disregard the gloom of last night,
And return back,
In dawn's early bright light.

-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

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.

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

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

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

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

She knows that this is for the best,
but she would never admit that,
Not with words,
She feels her words, weightless; would just sail right away with you.
You wonder what she will look like if you see 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?
As she thinks that you can no longer see her,
she's succumbing to the cold,
She starts into her coughing fit,
you watch with desperate despair

On the Eastbound coffin ship.

-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

At mid-day,
you left work early to drive your father to hospital,
bad knees,
old bones.
Instead of saying a cheerful goodbye,
you simply say to turn off the machine after you have gone.
A few hours later,
you are sat with your poor old father,
in a hospital canteen,
smelling of chemicals,
over a brown wooden table,
slurping disappointing green soup,
bread not entirely fresh nor stale,
just too expensive.
Then there is the chime of your cracked sliver phone.
Pressed up to your ear,
you hear the sound of your partners voice,
unsteady but to the point.
She tells you tragic news.
After it's said,
you forget to say a word back,
or even to hang up your phone,
gripped in hand.
John,
poor poor John.
John who had worked at the factory
ten long years longer then you have,
he was ******* in knots,
******* in chains,
chains red rust with sawdust,
chains meant for hunks of wood,
not chunks of flesh,
not bone,
breakable hallow bone.
The boys had to cut the chains.
And they turned off the machine,
hours after you said to
and moments too late.

-Jamie F. Nugent

On the dark city streets,
Where we could found
Ourselves
So effortlessly lost.
You turn a cobblestone
Corner into the alley
By the old bookshop,
To read the lines
On my palms,
I'm not superstitious,
But you are mythical,
I can not explain you,
I can only try,
But I would not even
Come close at all.

-Jamie F. Nugent.

He takes and he takes,
He will never ask, for fear it might stop him,
He will never be thankful,
He will never utter the word 'Please'.

He will only just act coy and tease,
He thinks it is funny when you are upset,
He is a walking double standard,
He is impossible to reason with,
He is in one ear and out the other.

He has given up on ageing long ago,
He was finished growing up years ago.
He is Peter Pan without the charm,
He is Peter's Pain and Peter's harm.

- Jamie F. Nugent

The further out West,
The madder the mad people,
I love the mad ones.


-Jamie F. Nugent

Your mascara runs,
Along with us in this rain,
And happiness runs.

Raindrops on your face,
And all along top lip,
Running down your smile.

My rainy day girl,
Love does not drip it cascades,
'Till we're drenched, unquenched.

-Jamie F. Nugent

How she was dying for a smoke,
And how she was dying from smoke.
It was perfectly pleasing
To pretend in the past,
When she was blessed
With youth and youth's charm.
When she was once a wild flower,
Strong, with wanderlust,
Blood red petals,
Far from Death.
Until her streams ran dry,
Causing thirst within all of us,
A thirst for life,
Her life, if not, our own lives,
In which, she was a constant North Star
Or maybe, for some,
A thirst to end the pain,
Her pain, Unimaginable,
A thirst for silence,
Our deafening speechlessness,
A thirst for oblivion.
Sinking into the Deep Sleep,
She leaves behind, her pain, her worry,
But never our love.
Always
Our
Love.

-Jamie F. Nugent

Marry them today!
Four year anniversaries,
All the cash you'll save!



-Jamie F. Nugent

Take whatever you want from me,
Because I haven't got that much left,
And if you ask me nicely,
Then it won't feel like theft.

I was smiling down the town hall,
With the corner of my lips I sense a dreamcatcher fall,
I said "Hey, darling, why don't you smile with me
We could stretch something sweet"
The dreamcatcher said
"Only if you stop Paris from pondering defeat".

We could close in a while,
Go south down the street and listen in style,
We all just talk until the Morse Code runs out,
It won't be long until the pretty bridge is done.

The still T.S. Elliot sleeps gracefully in the sea
He always kissed the plain train station,
And from their black coats the trumpets gaze,
They stop to touch the streetlights under the sun.

-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

The television plays
static and bad news,
You sleep on a pillow
under the basement
below the bed,
You are barely sleeping,
I am barely dreaming,
needle-sewed nightmares
that wake me and have me
jaded and joyless,
taboo thoughts,
just static,
just bad news.

-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

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

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

I would stick my hands
Into the Venus-fly-trap,
That you kept in your hallway,
Just to see what it felt like.

I would taste marmite
From your spoon,
Pressed up against my lips,
Just for a change.

I would drink my cup of tea,
The way it was to you liking,
(milk,no sugar)
Just to get a taste of what you tasted.

Still,there is value in things unpleasant.

-Jamie F. Nugent

The people in the café
Walk in and out
And in and out -
The lunchtime rush -

With black crosses on their foreheads;
Under their fringes,
Below their hats,
Above their glasses;
They forget they are even there,
The smudged little ash X's and +'s
Little kisses,
Adding it up.

The little ✞ so close to their brains
Makes the funny looks they give me
For eating meat somehow louder
And more meaningful -
Eating meaning for lunch? Today?!
Sacrilege! Surely!
Utter upsettment,
For utter disregard,
For their rules,
For His rules,
Because that is not
How the game works;

Do they stop for a second
In consideration
That I am not playing
The game?


-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

Cracks and chips off the Post Office pillars,
Concrete Angels wings, riddled with bullet holes,
Stand in the middle of Main Street.

Nine and ninety years ago,
Yet feeling like it was the day before my birth,
Just before my lifetime.

A ****** Sabbath to change everything.

There are many noble reasons
To shed one's blood
And give one's own life.

There are none to justify
Spilling the blood of another
And taking their one, only life.

And the philosophers,
During meek mid-mornings in April,
Were hanged without trial,
Gone judge nor jury.

Or sent to firing squad,
For the quicker, 'kinder' death.

But their deaths,
Slow nor instant,
Were not in vain.

-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

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

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

Where the sun is down
And the moon is pretty,
Out of town,
Away from the city,
The inside of your mouth tasted like milk,
And all of your skin felt of softest silk,
It wrapped around every bone in your body,
It said leave me alone everybody,
You circle around my soul,
A dead goldfish in a grimy bowl;
So after you blow out all of your candles,
Finished your drink
And slip off your sandals,
What do you think?
Won't you shut off your alarm-clock,
Won't you come see me,
You've got the impenetrable lock,
I have in my pocket, the skeleton key.


-Jamie F. Nugent

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

An old calendar ,
A Christmas present from me,
Only seen nine mouths.

-Jamie F. Nugent

It is a place where
Few seldom return from,
And even when they do,
You would not know
Them anymore.

There the girls spend their
Free afternoons in cafés,
Having their complex coffees
Poured into purple mugs, Then they
Melt into couches and conversation.

Pouring themselves into themselves,
Contemplating carnival rides
Upon Salt Hill and
Skinny dipping in Galway Bay,
When nights were soft with cool and chill.

With their blue eyes and black hair,
It is all too easy to lose your heart there.


-Jamie F. Nugent

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe there are a few more drops
Of blood that we have not yet ******
From each other,
until we are
See-through skeletons
under ripped red umbrellas,
Bone dry
in our tailor-made threshold.

And maybe there are
Blacker bruises
we could paint each other in.

Deeper scratches you could give me.

And maybe we are not done
******* up our love through straws,
like it is a pink parky milkshake,
that will soon sour,
Maybe we should pour it away,
Maybe we should drink it down,
By the mouthful,
And just let it hurt.

-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

In the nick of time,
You held a candle
To my hands, trembling,
Just before my
Fingers turned blue;
I am allured 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

All of my love - held on-top of a pin,
I can barley fit your love in this room,
Makes me want to cast away all my sin,
A love like this is rare as a red moon,
I can't remember how your lips did taste,
That taste fades away with the memory,
But your love shall never be put to waste,
It is all that I have left; can't you see?
Does your little heart have in it a dent,
Or do you lock it away in your chest?
I gave you up like sweet things during Lent,
My will, so strong and so undone, obsessed,
We'll suffocate under love and love's weight,
We'll infiltrate thunder and meet our fate.


-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

Just a summer's day
This melody in our minds
You're drenched in sunshine.

-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

You could speak sentences
Through your cracked lips,
That would make my heart
Miss a beat,or skip a beat,
I can not even tell.

--Jamie F. Nugent

I never could play the violin very well,
Unlike banjo, bass or guitar,
Violins require that delicate touch
And precise bow.

It is easy to pluck a banjo
And make it talk.
It is easy to slap a bass
And make it walk.
It is easy to hit and strike a guitar
And make it weep.

And it inconceivably simple
To make a violin stretch,
Just drag the bow,
Be it horsehair or the wood
Across four unbroken sliver strings,
Like a knife.

Making sounds that birth cringe and shiver,
Sickly shaking notes that winge and quiver.

-Jamie F. Nugent