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

Saint Valentine's Day,
The only rose she received,
Gift from the waitress.

-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.

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

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

The Christmas tree was dragged down,
Slayed like a beast, she was
Skinned of her decoration hide,
She looked a lot less pretty naked,
But God, she looked wild and free,
She was not ready to wither away,
She was not going to lay down and die,
Not just yet,
Not just now.

-Jamie F. Nugent

The cold of early morning,
The cold that hits my sleepy dusty eyes,
And gets inside my drowsy head,
So much so that,
My thoughts become transfixed, frozen;
There is nothing but that chill,
That chill that whispers, winter is melting away,
That chill that sings, summer won't be long now,
That chill that screams, the chill won't stay.

-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

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

A strange place;
This night-garden,
Under tress,
Under darkness,
Under blankets
On top of the glacial
Stone ground;
I didn't feel so cold then.
You were not a day older
Then eighteen years,
And I was not a day wiser then you.
You spoke with euphoria, delirium
Falling from your mouth;
Grinning like a Cheshire cat,
We went missing from the crowd-
All here to see you-
Rhapsody in a red-dress,
All I saw was you, in the
Quiet sleepy place where we'd be found
Kalopsia soft in silk,
Pale milk skin blending with the moon above,
You shone maniac moonlight into my eyes
Until I was your lunatic,
Just in the night,
We watched the lanterns fly
Just in the night,
We watched the lanterns die,
In the starry moonlit sky.


-Jamie F. Nugent

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I can't change that
Or how I feel for you.

Daisies are yellow,
When the Lilies have died,
You sing like a cello,
Five-hundred watts amplified.

Birds of Paradise, away they fly,
Up to the burning Sunflowers,
Gone without a goodbye,
In the hypnotic early morning hours.

And Tulips upon Tulips
To cover your pillow under your head,
And Tulip petals to cover the apocalypse
That hides behind your lips of red.


-Jamie F. Nugent

Election posters,
Teared down by mother nature,
Even wind has sense.

-Jamie F. Nugent

She always dressed
In the saddest shades
Of gray upon darker
gray;
She only felt comfortable
In gray,
Sleepy and paralytic,

Scanning her life through
Black, white and the gray
Photographs
Of Marilyn,
Of Charlie,
Of John,
Of Paul,
Of George, and
The other one.

She kept her smile well hide
Under her gray scarf.
She, the gray coquelicot
Who bloomed in the arboretum,
Where the roses were gray,
And the violets too,
She felt at home and sweet.

-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

Where it seemed like winter lasted forever,
I didn't mind the days being dark when
Mathilda was standing under snowy streetlights,
Covered in the ashes of Icarus' wings,
All sweet and sleepy;
Mathilda may I walk with you?
Hold your hand until we become Siamese twins;
If I had a hundred years,
I would sacrifice fifty one to and for you,
To see my soul's full meaning into future years,
Love or tears,
Which one first disappears?


-Jamie F. Nugent

The weekend lovers,
They never talked when sober,
Strangers come Monday.

No kindness from him,
Wants not her love nor her mind,
Just her body, drunk.

Lonely in his arms,
She keeps up the masquerade,
Nothing else to do.


-Jamie F. Nugent

I won't let this flame
burn me twice.
I won't once more
tease the taste
of your poison.
You're poison.
I knew I was inside
your aviary cage
made of glass,
But I didn't know
That I was trapped.
Spending our interlude
in the doldrums;
This Vaudeville
of lovers.
These back street
tricks we'd turn
on each other,
just to evoke
a little joyously.
That was our
real theater.

-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

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.

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

The old town,
Oesophagus of Main Street,
I am swallowed down,
And for it, my chosen ode,
Let's do the time warp again,
The yellow paint eroding,
Peeling right off the courthouse walls;
Cobwebs cover the judge's gaval
Because there are no killers standing in the halls,
The trials just concern unpaid bills and tickets,
Because it is such a fine, lovely village,
Without any crime, trouble or pillage,
Tuesdays on Main Street -
Hear the pins drop
Or just listen to the sound of the crickets.


-Jamie F. Nugent

Oh what a gorgeous,
cruel and ugly city,
Where titanic buildings
tower the gray sky,
Where the natives
are fluent in gibberish,
The prudent rapid ramble rumble
of Liffeysiders.
Spare a few shillings
for the ******'s fix?
Or pretend,
like most passer's by,
That you're deaf,dumb and blind.
The quick slick kick
of boot heels on stone bricks,
Down the Trojan streets
I would fellow
like desire lines,
Bumping into para-mores past,
awkward small-talk,
How they have changed,
for the better?
A winter's day,
feeling like spring,
Bustling ancient streets,
That are charmingly gruesome,
Warm and lonely.

-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

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

That little black bottle of stout,
That you gave to me years ago;
Will never be drank nor poured out
Into drains or in through lips, I know
As my heart would go with it as well,
Spilled out until it is hallow;
It is so simple and easy to tell,
If that little bottle breaks,
My heart would soon fallow.

-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

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

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

Your hair is longer than before,
Mine is shorter than the last time,
All our dyes have ran out,
Into our natural brown.

Your a little taller now,
With a head,
not hanging as low,
A tighter spring in your step,
As you wittingly walk toward me.
I hated waiting,
But I've never stoped.

Eager, I can not help becoming,
In the shadow of our showdown.
Modest mercy is all I ask from you.
As we fire our double barrelled Deringers,
Bullets that shoot tangible mementos,
Pierce worthless wounds you have opened before.

-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.

Electric blankets,
Three Duvets to warm me up,
I'd still rather you.


-Jamie F. Nugent

That Witchcraft smile,
Like there's something to hide in
That Lovecraft mind,
All twisted and beddable,
Give me the sweet stuff;
Narrowly edible.

-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

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.

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

Wanting you mouth upon me
as if sprinkled in MSG,
I kept going back to it,
as if smothered in sugar,
tongue, licking it up quick,
like on a flickering candles wick,
I'll handle the blame,
carry the weight,
'till all worries drained away
like coffee granules strained
into the bottom
of your French press,
'I'll die in Paris' you say,
'in Montparnasse, maybe,
in November,
perhaps I'll haunt
that tiny old cinema
that only holds
12 creaking seats,
and stick the springs
into their backs.'

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

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

Just as mine was given completely to you,
You threw it in the *******,
Like it was tainted, spoiled;
As if you can just go out and get more,
But I am past closing time,
So do not catch your death
If I treat you so coldly,
But do not try and warm up to me either;
You sure do have a lot of gallI gave you chocolates,
When you wanted flowers,
To act so boldly.
A confused carpet of torn up invitations
And old mutilated photographs,
I gave you chocolates,
When you wanted flowers.


-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

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

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

-Jamie F. Nugent

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

-Jamie F. Nugent

So what if he comes?
I'm not surprised anymore,
Same old obsession.

-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

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

How you fell from grace,
Brittle leafs from Autumn trees,
Have I fallen too?

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

You are not in my heart,
You are under my fingernails,
You are not on the tip of my tongue,
You are stuck in my teeth,
You are not in my dreams,
You are in my headaches,
You are not in my soul,
You are in my lungs,
You are not the taste on my lips,
You are the lump in my throat,
You are apart of me,
You are not every part of me..

-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