What I Noticed

4 Oct. 1998 @1614

l noticed the other building
It was a happy building
It was a building near my building
Did any of them see me?
I knew them
All of the bodies
And all of the faces
l felt like I was not known by them
Furthermore I was not a happy man
They had painted happy cat glyphs
On flower pots and they had cats
To feed and they had children
The children were beautiful over there
I did not have my child
l was one of the people you read about
In The obituary
Or you saw on “Crime-Line“
Wanted, me.

So I watched The happy people
From The standing position near my
Rented window,
I loved Them.

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170723 -ABN


Just Imagine, My Son

28 Sept 1998 

Just im a gine the sun 
Foll ow ing the ri ver
It sens es the life
Co ming out of the u ni verse.

What a lie I have told you,
My son, I do not know
What the sun sens es.

Just im a gine that it
Is there for you,
Be cause it is,
Why else would you know It?

Son, I love you.
I watched you feed by your moth er‘s breast.
You suc kled and you wept.
You lov ed your mother
And I lov ed her through you.

Just i mag ine
What it was like,
My son.
You now hold your fish ing pole
And yet you do not wish to catch
Be cause you have your father.
Your hook has not been checked for an hour
Or so
And you smile to your old-man
And a tear goes out of you
Like some squeez ed fruit.
Son, love your mother.
Love her boos em.
Love her.
Love life.

Call her, your mo ther, and then
Call your wife;
Call your sis ter,
Call your daugh ter,
Catt your vir gin moth er Ma ry,
And call your mis tress;
Call Kali
Call Sha Di Yah

Just im ag ine the sun,
If you would, my son,
Be cause I love you
And that is All that mat ters to me now,

And son, re mem ber the wo men, too.
The sun, they can al so see.

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOMK Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170624 -ABN


Like Water

25 September 1998

At the beach 
In the sand
On the water
By the boat
Near the river
To the sea
We floated our souls

When the buoy sinks
At the shore
Near The castle
The greatest leisure
The kindest feature
The able brow
The bloody cloud
The sable coat
The moat
We continued our trek

Your‘s is the seed
Mine is the tandoor oven
The bread is sweet
See The shoal
See The shell
See The reams of fabric
Test the waters with your toes
My love
My love
My goodness‘s
Your goodness reflects
The creature's corral
The gold
On silver
ls nice
In nether words
The chosen few
The waters

In the beach
By the lake
In The sand
On The floor
I'll be your man
I‘ll do what I can
I'll reap the belly
Of you, laughing woman.

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170624 -ABN


The Yellow Poem

22 September 1998

Yellow, a color not to be messed with,
Begins somewhere over there
Past the water and beyond the breeze
That blows the sand into the faces
Of children and adults
Camping and playing drums
In their minds
In their minds
In their minds.

Yellow is lodged in between
Red and Green
And people seldom obey its
Instead they speed up their pursuits
Afraid of Red
And missing Green
Missing Green
Missing Green
Missing Green.

Yellow is piss to people
It gets the attention,
But it gets nothing else.

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170723 -ABN


E... A... R... S... .

10 Sept 1998

When Bill, The Bastard, ate bread
The rocky shore became
A brick thrown from the sea

Special munitions were launched
in fever of The Queen's knickers

Not sure when to Jump
Not sure when to hide
Colliding with The sea
And seagulls came resting together
in from of the heather

Resting seams like Bill
After getting it old and ill
And hilly
Like water-flies
The kind gentle water-flies
That rest upon your eyes

Crabs that catch the sun
in claws worn from Bill‘s hands
The Bastard lands another blow
Left up the neck and down
His crow
Like a brow
For an eye to meet
The sweet smell of success‘
Have a good time in the rain,
You comma-nist.

Subconscious jerking The shore
Again the planes dodge radar
To crash into the sun
That the crabs were holding by the ears
E... A... R... S...

Spoken from the plumage of the rummy hand.

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170626 -ABN


She She She...

26 Aug 1998 

I wanted to write poems today,
It's so selfish, I know,
But I kept seeing her face and I dreamed
That she was there and that she was the
Wisest human that I could know.
I wanted to write poems today
About love and fire,
Instead I was chastised with my own desire.
I wanted to write the great American
But I got sick, drunk, or died.
Dead, I received a blow to the head and
I was the amigo of some third world pig.
I wanted to write that poem that we could all
answer too,
But it all ended with a quick breeze and
I ended up just being horny.

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOMK Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170618 -ABN


I am not man enough

23 Aug 1998

I am not man enough to admit I have been
Beaten by the loves that threshold brings forth
I am not man enough to pay for everyone else's
And I am not man enough to stare in the sun and
get a buzz off of it
I am not man enough to wish that the she that she is
would just stop pestering my dreams
I am not man enough to stop the flow of righteous
I man not man enough to rule the world for a short
period of time
I am not man enough to get killed for the sake of
I am just not man enough to really be a man
I guess that I will Just have to be what I am...
A man,

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170624 -ABN



7. Aug. 1998

                               Apostasy, here
Forgets his mother’s good bread--
                              Remembers sore cheeks.

Here is a haiku - 575.

Giving up his religion and most of the values taught to him the son here is blaming his mother for the laps of faith. As short as this poem is the son also suddenly remembers how good his mother's cooking was. In the end he remembers the beatings over the cooking. It's a short thought in 1998. After this the healing can begin. No more blame for the path he takes. It's in his hands.

 by Alex Nuttall, title: Apostasy, Original Date: 19980807 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2018 – Retro-published 20180318.

#AlexNuttall #OgFOMK #Poetry #Apostacy #Mother #Child #Son #Haiku



I Still Find Cigarette Butts

9 July 1998

I still find cigarette butts
Always appearing in the various boxes I have moved
From a common residence to the one you found
That I assumed residence of
I still find cigarette rappers and other knick-knacks
like drippled wax and broken incense sticks
I still write words about these things
So it goes.
Why did I move to Norfolk’?
You were The answer.
Well, I am here, now you are gone,
So it goes, like a Cigarette butt,
Packed up and shipped out,
Me and the cigarette now have liberty
I still find cigarette butts and I remember so many times
Emptying that ash tray of yours when it piled so high
You just smoked.

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170626 -ABN


What Says Says

8 June 1998 @ 2111

It looks so dirty
Dateless moonbeams carry back
Abysmal discussions in the
Uncomfort zone
All over tippy-toe tongues beaten down
So many times before
Afraid of what will be said
But Says, says anyway.

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170723 -ABN


Montag @ 0230, 29 June 1998

29. Jun. 1998

I guess that I am writing now, because I can not
Talk to Christine,
What are poems about anyway?

I used to think that I could rule the world as
An anarchist,
But I should have listened to Papa
And studied more about design and the way things
In some way I am listening.

I once said that I was a poet,
Sure, I was a poet,
That is why they made machines to handle words,
Because someone was listening.

I am calling San Fran to speak to someone,
But it is Sunday and even they are asleep there.
I am trying to call my cousin Bri.,
But he is asleep too.
Shoot, Man, ain’t somebody awake?

I could talk to Corey, but he got shot in the face
In P-town and he’s dead.
I could talk to Steve,
But he died of AIDS and that Marinol never saved his
Skinny, white, ass;
But Josh was up in San Fran and he lamented about
How he had to work--
Hell, I got to work, too!

In San Fran it is
Here it is 0234,
In England it is 0634.
I’ve got to get up at 0600 Eastern Daylight Time
And go on to work
But I am still hanging on and not forgetting that time that
Al called my apartment four years ago and wanted to
Speak to me and she said, “Hey, this is Allison...”
and I
Hung up on her because it was too late.
I said,
“Look, I am married and I can not talk to you.”

We are all on so many path’s of God’s big disintegration.
Time to leave words and maybe it will all bring us back to
The center.

Montag @ 0230, 29 June 1998
Montag @ 0230, 29 June 1998


Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: Montag @ 0230, 29 June 1998, Original Date: 19980629 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2017 – Retro-published 20170823.

Early in the morning before the sun was up our hero was dwelling on all things life. Running through the names and faces of people he knew. He makes a phone call or two. Recollections and reflections. Some dead names, some old names, some current names and some names nearly forgotten. Sleep returned once it was realized that neither he nor God was in control.

#AlexNuttall #OgFOMK #Poetry #Montag #God #Anarchy #Listening


Simple Post:

“Montag @ 0230, 29 June 1998“ Alex Nuttall - 29. Jun. 1998 – #AlexNuttall #OgFOMK #Poetry #Montag #God #Anarchy #Listening


© Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017 - 20170823 -ABN – Ed Date: 2017-08-23 01:57


Your Stuff

15 June 1998

It was easy to pack your things,
I played romantic music
While doing so,
I missed you still,
But it was easy to eagerly pack your stuff.

I had a little wine at the end
Of my cardboard box party
And Patsy Cline was being played;
It almost could have been sad,
As I packed your drawers away,
But I was happy, or I felt complete
Since I knew that our time had passed.

I found a love poem
That I thought I had written for you,
How sweet that you had saved it!
But as I decided to to throw it away,
Looking over it,
I noticed that my name was not Steve,
So I did not throw it away,
I packed it, too;
So keep Steve,
Leave me, and I will be gone--
Erased--Eradicated—Kaput—No more.

Packing was easy
And now
When and what feelings do resurface
I can write them down
In my great American novel;
All hope is here,
In solitude;
I am happy we only had a verbal agreement

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170723 -ABN


Rain Does This

10 June 1998 @1146

If it rains, then rain it comes;
Showers reduce the dust to firmament;
But I love to love anyway,
However the dust does settle;
I ask myself what are those
Words that I am writing?
Another poem with me stuck
Inside of it;
Patiently I settle down on this;
July, what did she know?
June, there was no room;
May, in dismay I wander;
April is no good;
March on by the freeway of the heart;
And then there are epochs
To deal with;
Another mans fetter--
Another one's secret wish;
So there settles now evenly the water,
Finding its own ocean,
And dust pools itself together,
Forever making wishes;
Forever making wishes.

Rain Does This
Rain Does This

© Alexander Blair Nuttall/OgFOMK ArTS 1998-2018
2017-06-14 16:44:35 ABN


Eulogy For Old Men

7 June 1998

...and, my Roman friends,
There was that time I got a hard on
Just from watching the cleaning lady,
But that was then,
Long before i had ever read Buck Fuctowski.
After Buck, even the white-trash, missing teeth, and
Looked good to me;
But i must say that the other
Great writers,
Bull Lee Biscuit
And Jack Daniels Bladder
Made me feel queer, sometimes,
But they wrote from the wrong head.
Fuctowski, on the other hand, he wrote from
The gut
And that was nice of him to do that.
But he's dead now and so is my granddaddy-
That is, one of my granddaddies.

My dad's dad, he would have loved Fuctowski;
They could have gone fishing together.
So i guess that now they are in that part of
After-life where
Old men arm wrestle and show off
For old women
Feeling their pained lives and bodies,
Bodiless with only the mind,

Oh, cleaning ladies are still good,
But i know that they ain't the best;
O Fuctowski, you're dead, but I tilt this one to you

[From Ogfom-k #7,  June 1994]
(edited 29 Sept 1998)

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170626 -ABN


Fat Sun Hour

9 Jul 1994

I day dream
In the fat
Hour of the Sun.
I use the pen incorrectly
And I die.
In the eve,
The whiteness grows to

I am not listening anymore.

Fat Sun Hour
Fat Sun Hour

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1994
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1994 - 2017
20170728 -ABN


Tickle Me Cookies

2. Apr. 1998

More than not the feelings are evoked and yoked
Into this wonderful surprise
Naked and tending the row of planted
Gardens that the mind has given,

Elven tempers are there
Whatever they may be and it is not important
Anymore a constant reminder of this,

Skin is all over the place
Look at the bovines copulating!
Look at them looking at us,

More than not the feelings are created masterpieces of
Deception from Within’s hindsight
Into this they are running the day like a bad watch
Growing the hand of the clock like sundial-daises,

Riddles of the Stinks
The river Styx
Got to get me a fix
On the tricks
With Blitz and Beaver and Mo Daddy Cleaver
Meat and the Rhyme
Go to have a good time
In the signs you are looking
For what was cooking
Reminds me of you –
Ach-hoo! Phooey! 

Dirty minded fetish kicked in the head good luck fella’
Nice to know you were part of the Yella’-war of 1312 B.C.
I seen you flying that tahini cat-nip flier canker sore
And it don’t hurt, do it?
You already been through it singin’
And banging out masterbatory auto erosticker-me boundaries 
Of further than the Grateful Puss rock banjo,
You God-Damn right!
Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: Tickle Me Cookies, Original Date: 19980402 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2018 – Retro-published 20171228.
Tickle Me Cookies - Alex Nuttall

There is a rhythm in everything thing we say. It's how we know our natural grammar is correct. In the United States we have hundreds of vernaculars that are hidden beneath satellite dishes, cellphones, cable subscriptions and air broadcasts. In essence our English is spans oceans and continents. Greater than that is the language of mankind constantly in development.

"Tickle Me Cookies", by Alexander B. Nuttall is a word building. It is a word painting. Nothing fantastic here except a little sweet break from our regular cadence.

Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: Tickle Me Cookies, Original Date: 19980402 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2018 – Retro-published 20171228.

#AlexNuttall #OgFOMK #Poetry #Rhythm



Old Band Flyers - 13 - "Guest pass" -- benefit show @ West End Cafe

15. Mar. 1998

By Lon Bennett - Bio

This was a benefit show back in March of 1998 at Friar Tuck's on Hampton Blvd,Norfolk,VA.
opened at noon.

twelve bands:

  1. Runner Up 
  2. Combine
  3. Plan B (My old band)
  4. Method 51
  5. No Saner
  6. Nation
  7. .Inner Self 
  8. Deviation 
  9. Overflow 
  10. Sea of Souls 
  11. Deist Requiem 
  12. Rights of Humanity

© LonBennett / OgFOMK ArTS -- 2017 All Rights Reserved. - Old Band Flyers -  13 - West End cafe benefit show

#OgFOMK #LonBennett #music #laminate #guesentrancepass #NorfolkScene



The Narrow Is Wide

1. Feb. 1998

Almost stopped the words from moving
There beginning the long trip down Narrow’s Road
Felling the way to the Braille highway
Bling in one eye
And can’t see out the other
Gathering the stone to buy a highway ticket
Traveling down the wayward path
Not there that the straight and narrow
But the crooked and wide Narrow’s Road.

So what are you saying, Love?
That this one can’t afford your hand?
That you are going on to the other land?
That this was just a crossroad?
That this was a place to just off-load?
Your self and soul?

Now hit the road it’s all getting too cold
There can be nothing but unbearable loads
Of heart heavies with cold gusts of air
Swishing between and making it all seem like
Crying would be a good idea now.

No one is looking,
Time to make the chest heavy and let the sobs roll
On and on and on
Let the love be the diameter of the sob’s wheel
And roll on and on and on.

And the end of the word is like a joke,
There is no end.

Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: The Narrow Is Wide, Original Date: 19980201 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2018 – Retro-published 20171222.
Alex Nuttall - The Narrow Is Wide, Original Date: 19980201
Photo: Moscow 2012 © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS

Alexander Nuttall writes about traveling with a loved one. Not just the fixed path or known route but the road of life. This road which is also called Narrow's Road is thin, unpredictable and full of blame for the weary relationships that it can support. At the same time it is not known because it is wide with possibility. The deduction is that anything can happen but there is a narrow route followed. Eventually there is an end to it all. Alas the end is a conclusion that there is no end to this funny journey.

Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: The Narrow Is Wide, Original Date: 19980201 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2018 – Retro-published 20171222.

#AlexNuttall #OgFOMK #Poetry #Driving #Seeing #Love #Emotion



Sperm Ain't No Joke

30. Jan. 1998

I am writing a poem
In Front of Me
And the
Desk is getting closer
And closer to the
Of minute factions
And fractures
And People
Telling us all
What it is
We are up to
In the end
Still the end
And that
No hip-hop junk,
By the way
We have all
Been writing it seems like
We ain’t ever
Going to finish
That intention
That it
Was that we
Were going to


Let’s face it
That intention
Was the sperm
After the egg
And as odds
Have it we
Were the
Lucky ones who
After prolonged exposure
Get to die anyway.

Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: Sperm Ain't No Joke, Original Date: 19980130 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2018 – Retro-published 20170728.
Sperm Ain't No Joke -- Alex Nuttall

Alex Nuttall writes the title of this poem in 1998, "Sperm Ain't No Joke". He contemplates his life and life from the relationships that produce it to the end result which is death. It's nothing to be afraid of. It's a powerful realization that makes ever moment special.

Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: Sperm Ain't No Joke, Original Date: 19980130 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2018 – Retro-published 20170728.

#AlexNuttall #OgFOMK #Poetry #Sperm #Joke #Life #Serious #Death



Leave A Stone

2. Jan. 1998

The grass
is there
and I
am aware
of the
pains Young
is the
who forgets
Age is
that I
am not
here anymore
Gone with
the leaves
as they
green, grow,
fold and
the way
to my
heart and
leave a
stone to

Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: Leave A Stone, Original Date: 19980102 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2017 – Retro-published 20170822.

A funeral for a Jewish person where the grass is just as important as the life of observer and the end of days. Leaving a stone on the grave for respect.

Keywords: #AlexNuttall #Poetry #OgFOMK #Stone #Mortality #Death #Life



Justice Is A Big Series of Drunks

1. Jan. 1998

Just when the booze wore off
Another has begun, anew
And the crew has swabbed the
Deck only to have it roosted all over
Once more
And the city lights die down
And dusk creeps into
This old poem written again
It will blow away again,

Love found soft shoulders
To rest its head, good bye,
To die again in the pillow,
To die again by ones side,
This is all
That had to be say
And now no more, et al.
To be in the hands of justice
Drunk more and more, amore,
That this old poem
In her hand
It will blow away again;

She told me forever, forever
Forgotten now among the blooms
Of flowers that are picked
And they only wither,
What good is love’s
Burst and pleasure
To leisure itself to sleep
And this old poem that is my Friend
It will walk away again
To keep,

Justice has been done.

Drunk Man with Cat
Drunk Man with Cat

Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: Justice Is A Big Series of Drunks, Original Date: 19980101 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2017 – Retro-published 20170811.

A slow song in the head of a drunken man that has no music only the words. A distant reflection on the love stuff. Another rhythm that calls again and again. Circa: 1998. We are not really sure when it was written.

Keywords: Drunk, Poetry, Love, Amore, rhythm


1. Jan. 1998
By Alex Nuttall - Bio

I am finding it difficult
Wheezing and breathing in the wind,
Of the morning,
Nostrils conquered with dust
And a fever grows ever
Gruesome pains that deliver the Me
Into the hands of liberty-gone-bad.

The handsome soul
Now sounds its way into the
River and bends its ways to and from and to,
For to,
Revolutionary instructions will be given
Later on, my brother…
Later on.

Short ways to meaninglessnessess
And other messes
Of mans occupation in the

This is the teaching of the birds that are like owls screeching
And supine around;
The corroborator eats its way through the
And the General Lee is still on his pedestal.

In the Babooniverse this is what makes
Us all one,
¿Comprende, No?

Oui Oui!
No, Poo Poo.


Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: BABOONIVERSE, Original Date: 19980101 – © Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2017 – Retro-published 20170728.

BABOONIVERSE - Not to sure about the date. Last copyright was 1998. Breathing is just part of life, but in stressful situations it becomes the measure between life and death. Babooniverse represents the monkey man glorified as he thinks of himself in revolutionary terms


1. Jan. 1998

When I wrote before
I could open the door
And say hello to my mind
Being very unkind
It did what it did and I had to let go
Of all that I thought was right
Dynamite in the light the horizon is
Look at the people all looking at me like
Drive-by killings that secede
Some governments,
All for the sake of Humanis
Homo Homo Sapiens Erectus;

And the Blue jays still taunt me.

Cyanocitta cristata

"Bo-Bop-Da-Re-Bop" was a title Alex gathered from an old dude he knew working in construction. The dude's name was Snake Doctor. Alex is not really sure what date this poem was composed. The hard copy is circa 1998. -- ED

Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: Bo-Bop-Da-Re-Bop, Original Date: 19980101 – © Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2017 – Retro-published 20170728.

So Protests the Protestant

01 Jan. 1998

In School,
High School,
I Decided
To Be A Poet;

So I did not pretend to be anything else,
My life grows and I get older now,
I am still playing the game,
I can’t spell,
I can’t rhyme,
And I can’t pay all of my bills…

Oh, look at me!
The poet who is;

One small step for me 
Years of cleanup 
Next Generation
Punks and pundits;

Sometimes the ground is the same,
I am dealing with some people who are a lot
Smarter than me –
A whole lot smarter;

But this is my life
When I die
They will all be gone.

Protest, Red Square,  Moscow 2012 © Alex Nuttall
Protest, Red Square,  Moscow 2012 © Alex Nuttall

As always the poet Alex Nuttall is using hindsight to clarify his stretch in the run of life. This poem breaths with the panting runners aches and pains. The run is not over so when this was written in 1998 it was just another move to push the runner on. Experts call this the internal locus  that motivates.

The title is about being raised Southern Conservative Baptist. Baptists are from the Protestant side of Christianity. By this time Alex was calling himself Buddhist but he started to embrace his rejected upbringings as well.

We are not quite sure when in 1998 this was written so chronologically it goes on January 1st, 1998. Just for fun.

Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: So Protests the Protestant, Original Date: 19980101 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2017 – Retro-published 20171201.

#AlexNuttall #OgFOMK #Poetry #Protest #Protestant #Poet #Death #Life #Christianity #Buddhism