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Steve Nash is a writer from York UK and should be doing research for his Ph.D studies. He is a qualified teacher but despite this earns his keep (kind of) as a musician playing to anyone foolish enough to stay in the bar. His work has appeared in London Grip, Ouroboros Review, Read This Magazine, Reflection's Edge, The Cartier Street Review, Word Salad, Haiku Ramblings, Smoke and the Poetry Warrior.

Eletriptan or Why We Can’t Own a Gun

Why we can’t own a gun

Maybe rename
because all this poetry would not have been written.


When the knot of knuckled blood vessels detonated
a big bang, a new universe painted in my skull
and then
the pressure
the blood,
the heart trying to engulf the brain.

To stop

I’d have capitulated and stuck the barrel against
my swollen temple.

Why I can’t own a gun

I’d have capitulated and stuck the barrel against
my swollen temple

to stop

the heart trying to engulf the brain
the blood
the pressure
and then
a big bang, a new universe painted in my skull
when the knot of knuckled blood vessels detonated


And then all this poetry would not have been written.
Maybe rename

Why I should own a gun.

Line

"Line" he says                   "Line" they wait                "Line" she hears
coughs and murmurs          eager eyes                       flies and spiders
traverse the room              rolling                                purposefully
like tumbleweeds               like loose hubs                  buzz buzz buzz
no line comes                     no line comes                    no line comes

Cuts

The head of the bloated and excessive “right to strike”,
snappily renamed “digest the changes”, tells that the wheel
stops short of lyrical introspection and may be right.

Dossiers as thorny as gothic script could be bundled,
kept in a box, with a case that’s flimsy, the outside pushing
as if unfolding various components may push ahead.

Investors could be facing gold-plated bathroom fixtures
tailored to allow double the fees that are swallowed up
in more pesky voting eschewing immediacy.

Meanwhile, dancehall – What a difference! Circles are squared
There is no appetite begging for delay when it comes to crossing over
the short run. The square mile vision of apocalypse.

Complex cost structures failed to restrain cunning devotion
from the charter, clearest but unkindest, recorded and pressed
allowed to protest.

All the endorphins sound like potentially untested invitations to
the constitutional court, a window into genesis which has few powers
retailing common gossip. Money just pours.

Build a coalition. Hurry it along, lightly dismissing the miserably poor
returns from fledglings spending hours on the telephone
trying to recreate the texture of the unconscious realm, periodically flirting
with the end of October.

Last act in office, a raw one, excludes a host and removes the distinction
between sparsely attended drags on performance and therapy
failing to crack estrangement

At the root of the process of churning overall returns are low
a backlash would always be coming. Demands are accelerated,
the first printing sold.