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

-Jamie F. Nugent

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

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

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

-Jamie F. Nugent

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

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

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

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


-Jamie F. Nugent

I went to her house last night,
It was a ornate little place,
With floors you want to
Walk barefoot upon.

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

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

-Jamie F. Nugent

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

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

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

An apocalypse of agony approaches
Like a toxic hangover,
After a self-righteous drunk, with
Propaganda spiking our drinks,
A specter is haunting -

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

-Jamie F. Nugent

The trumpet on the kitchen table
Catches the sunlight and returns it;
Into the eyes, onto the skin,
Sweet and soundless.

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

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

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

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

-Jamie F. Nugent