Endless Possibilities

The endless drawl of planes above, mathematically guided to their destinations

Bound in an endless loop cleaving the sky in transitory bliss

A hiss of engines, a whine of wind

How long will we glide to far off lands searching for something that’s inside us

We mistakenly forgot that the power lies with us

That can lead to beautiful moments of endless tranquilities

 

We create screaming demons and baneful angels

Silhouetting as unknown shadows in the deep recesses of our minds

Occasionally masquerading as devilish nightmares and delicate fantasies

Invading our thoughts complicating our beautiful psychologies

Distorting and intrinsically fragmenting into echoes of the servile self

Crescendoing cacophonies of emotion spill seamlessly

Our identities pervade it, losing out on all sensibility.

 

We are kings, we are queens, we are saints and sinners

The realist and the surrealist, the good and the bad, the clever and the naïve

The compassionate and the jealous, the ambitious and the competitive

The sensitive and the hurtful, the part and the whole

Yourself and ourselves, simultaneously.

 

 

 

You Left

I once knew a girl whose eyes were as bright as the world

I know her still, in my dreams and remnants of memories

I told her I loved her on the banks of the Thames

She told me with fervour that “I love you so sir”

 

Then we waltzed through the arches of London Bridge

To the shouts of the street pedlars

And the wind blowing the falling brown leaves of autumn

All the way to the palace, where we kissed under the gaze of the Queen 

 

Our bellies were full of wine

But we didn’t mind

The night was full of beguile

And I’d wished known what was about to transpire

 

Kilburn was foggy the night that you left

The lampposts were lonely

And my heart breaking in its chest

I drowned my sorrows in a barrel of whiskey till the dawn rose 

 

You said I was handsome you said I was yours

But my heads in tatters and you caught the coffin ship from Liverpool

To dance with chance in the land of the lady of liberty 

And me in cold blighty alone with my dreams of you 

 

I once knew a girl whose eyes were as bright as the world

I know her still, in my dreams and remnants of memories

I told her I loved her on the banks of the Thames

She told me with fervour that “I love you so sir”

 

 

Death Under The Bridge

Down beneath the stone bridge he sat, his head bowed against his chest. Mist rose from the water to lap at his boots in lazy curls. Three alcoves the bridge had underneath it, and he sat in the middle one, on a patch of dirt, just above the water line propped alongside the damp, mossy wall. For now the water was low and he was safe but when the high tide came he would be washed away by the currents.

Either alive or dead. For how long he had sat there he did not know, his body was bruised and broken. A great pain in his ribs made it difficult to breath and bubbles came out his mouth when he did. His knee was broken, he could tell that much and his right arm didn’t want to move, laying limp by his side. He watched the dark river water lap at his fingertips but he couldn’t feel it, his whole arm was numb, it felt strange, like he wasn’t his self and must’ve had an awful lot to drink, however he couldn’t remember doing anything of the sort.

A panic rose from his gut but its adrenalin couldn’t help, he lifted his left hand and with it, inspected his head. A lump the size of an egg grew out of the back of his bald noggin, covered in congealed blood. Lamenting at his situation as the acquiescence of death set in, an image of his wife appeared in his mind, he tried to cry but had forgotten how. He hadn’t cried for over fifteen years, not since his first day as a carpenter’s apprentice, when he hit a nail straight through his thumb, so he screwed up his face and wailed, silently. The pain in his chest soon stopped the wailing, fear gripped him like it never had before, and he could not compare it to anything he had feared before. This fear came from within, from somewhere deep down, from somewhere primal and animalistic, it was the fright of death.

Shock was beginning to set in, and mortality was not far behind. A man’s whistle cut clean through the mist, and suddenly someone jumped down into the alcove from the bridge.

“My my, what do we have here then, a right mess by the looks of it, they touched you up good and proper, my little pinchpenny” the stranger declared.

The dying man looked up groggily and tried to focus his eyes on the man who just jumped down, to join him by the water. Hope rose in his punctured chest, he was saved!

The stranger bent down, and with his hands went through the bewildered man’s pockets, which is not what our bridge dweller presumed, and not too kindly either. Pain shot everywhere. The stranger grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close, so close he was inside the brim of the stranger’s hat. He could see the man’s unkempt facial hair and rotting teeth, acidic breath filled his nostrils.

“What did you tell them?” The stranger shook him roughly.

 

The dying carpenter moaned in reply.

 

A gloved hand slapped his cheek, hard.

 

“What did you tell them?”

 

Another moan.

 

“You useless sack of shit, you can barely hear me I’m guessing, pain must be bad” The accoster sighed and continued

 

“It’s not your fault, mind, I’ve arrived too late to get what I need from you” he said as he shook his head.

 

“Bastards, probably didn’t think I would find you, either way, you’re fucked, and I need to take my leave” and with that, the hatted man took himself off, climbing back up to the bridge.

 

The water was rising, tide was coming in and within a matter of hours the tide would take him, his body food for the fishes. The only place that he would still live would be in his wife’s memory.

 

A Dream of the Creators

Seven sultry sirens slice the surface of the setting sun

Their screams silent in the solar sonnet softly screeching soulless sentiments

Swiftly swept sunwards on beams of blue shadow

Carelessly caressing their divine designs diligently dissecting dead demons

Devoid of emitting emotion emerging endlessly eroding eruption

Moving mountains of molten memories

Manipulating minds managing markets maliciously making us all

Adding artificial addictive additions

Actively animating alienation of the nations

Narrowly negatively nuking natives powering profit

Perpetually maintaining Roman rights and rituals

 

The Hound of Moulsecoomb (A Short Story)

All he could see out of the window was the reflection of himself and the empty carriage he sat in. Unflattering lights above made his reflection look drawn out and old. His eyes strained to see things in the gloom. Faint silhouettes of leafless trees and house lights. Thinking of warm homes and central heating made him feel far away.

Tiredness spread over his body. Eyes heavy, he scanned the document he was reading making sure it was worded perfectly. He was going to hand the Divorce papers to his wife, that very night. Fifteen years of marriage. He sighed as the brakes screeched, a great scrapping of metal on metal. He wrapped his tartan scarf about his neck and departed the train at Moulsecoomb.

Crisp night air greeted his face at the deserted station. The chill reached his bones. He walked down the dark platform and up the stairs to the bridge over the track. His heels clacked on the concrete. It echoed all around him on the walled bridge but the sound that bounced back made him stop in his tracks. A growling emanated from somewhere in front of him followed by unnatural snarling.

His wits lost, he stood stock still for a second and lifted his briefcase in front of him, as if using it as a shield and shuffled forwards. Barks sounded around him making him cower, terrified, but he could see nothing. He edged towards the stairs and as he turned onto the next set of steps, waiting for him at the top was a black blood hound the size of a horse who lunged at him, ghostly passing through him. And so he tumbled down three flights, landing dead on the platform, the divorce papers falling quaintly about him in the still cold air.

© Jack Nugent