J.L. Nash

Featherhead
Don’t call me that
...

Deep within foraged images
Lie cryptic clues of streets
And unaffordable books
On shelves next’ faces
...

It was the sign
a post with a small board attached
that said nothing
up until then
...

On the clock face, on the number four, rests two flies fucking
Their movements so tiny to be imperceptible
...

it does

left on concrete
a bloodstained chainsaw
...

It’s like this he said as he wandered down the street
It’s like this and he held out a leaf on a tree
Took out a pen and wrote leaf
The road was cobbled the alleyway narrow
...

Love thief
You steal into my heart
And take away my laughter
...

I dreamed of you
Of antique books, misplaced
Honour and dark drawers in libraries
Inviting me inside
...

SLEEPING THE SLEEP OF ANGELS OFF DUTY
Or
All at 6’s and 7’s
...

His attention to detail
On the canvas that sits
...

If I hide my eyes with my hands
Like I am 5 or maybe 4
...

In a not dissimilar fashion to the way you pour your life in to me and then
I let it flow from me
...

The bark on the gum tree hangs in strips like a torn dress
Flayed nightwear once of the silken variety
...

The absence of loneliness
Just when you are full of love for him or her
...

I’m rowing across the channel
two oars a wooden boat and a simple sail
...

a fawn coloured camel leather shoulder bag
a pocket on the front precisely sized for my digicam
...

There’s a shepherd’s crook of gnarled and knotty wood
From his ankle bending in at the waist and fitting against the elbow point
...

Two uncloaked heads
In a sea of a thousand and one hijabs
...

Let there be none until we are dead
Let it wait until jackals scream
...

Slow silent moments of longing
hang next to where I sit
...