Liam Nickerson | Interactive Designer and Art Director

March 29, 2012:

So, I haven't updated the site in a while, and it looks like it needs a refresh. This year has been incredible, with the launch of our company, Fugitive Ink and the vast amount of varied work we've been doing for clients like IBM and Think 33. More to come, I'm going to make it a point of refreshing this material on a daily basis, although depending on how that goes it might not be evident. May have to think around that a bit.

The new portfolio section is now launched, but continues to be populated, so please check back for progress here

I still hold you dear my only one, Surely until the day undone, Who will there be to pay me heed? To watch me ride? To see my steed? To mend my arm, to shore my hip? To plant a kiss upon my lip? To know I always tried my best? To put that statement to the test?

To kill the doubts that nag at me, To zip my zipper, to take no fee. To ride a bike that has no seat, Just so us to finally meet, And on that day that comes so near, When trumpets sound and sky grows clear. Their lords will speak in angry voice, Telling me ‘boy you had no choice’, So I might listen and suck their toes, Instead I’ll stop to smell a rose.
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My gnomes they have a clique you see, They gather for their mock high tea. That’s high tea but drunk from stones, Served up on china made from bones.

And in this crowd made up of gnome, There came a dwarf that stood alone. In a dress of chipmunk fur, and crown of flower and of burr.

That dwarf she stopped to talk to me, and from my heart she stole the glee. And then she sent me far away, Sent me to my moon to stay. And now my gnomes! They hold no wonder, Their luster gone and rent asunder.

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She moved among the tulip rows, Upon her nimble painted toes. And cooked the most splendid of feasts, To serve amongst her friends the beasts. Running her hands along their faces, Her song the lonesomeness of spaces. Her parents they did call her June, Named upon that month’s new moon. And from her blood a spell might come, That ended all, when said and done, And brought men to their quaking knees, Like flu patients wracked with sneeze.

I saw he on her nightly rounds, I tried to stop and make no sounds. It looked as if she’d start with fear, If I did but try to pull too near. But stronger than that tale she was, And stood her ground I think because, she never heard a story told, that was too long nor was too bold.
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In my possession I have the skeleton of a fairy, I’d say it’s quite small, and a little bit scary. Every so often it twitches I think, Whining and moaning and crying for drink.

That bone can be loud with all of its needs, Singing me songs of my long past misdeeds. I try not listen but it’s whinging so loud, I even can hear it wrapped up in its shroud.

Today I did try to wring its damn neck, And lay it down low amongst refuse and dreck. In that moment I saw on it’s head with a frown, A tarnished and crapulent small gold crown.

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