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I can make lies from songs

like the doledrums of melody

or memory are just words plucked

from some other la’s lips

and how often have I endured,

not endured, enjoyed

walking down to the river,

not down to the river, walking

near the river and seeing

it, dusk stained and wide,

from the end of an avenue,

not an avenue, from the end

of a private estate, not a private estate,

from the end of a council estate

(delete this, there is not this

in rhyme, in skald slobbering)

and there are no tossing waves,

no there are no worries, no abodes

for worry, for curb sleeping worry,

just that it was the last flim I had, I held,

I barely held, and not enough for bifters,

and there it is now, tossed about

by terrible tossing waves, beneath sheets,

no not sheets, beneath a sky low and heavy

and fat with thunder, not thunder,

just the sound, not song, of low hulled barges

lazily leading lower hulled barges

to work, no not to work, not us,

and waking, later, listening to leftover

music, long lost music of dirty summers,

of decade gone summers,

the night’s anxieties take me,

how it slipped away, a leaf,

a flimsy leaf, a flim taken

by a nearly river, a jarg river,

a river of untrustworthy currents,

a river barren of ships,

barren of cliffs to wreck against

and lacking the prows of ships,

no not prows, and lacking the prayers

of ships, no not ships, and lacking

the prayers of men who think

their hearts full of sorrow, their troublesome hearts,

and being silent then on and on


About michaeleganpoetry

Liverpool based poet and editor. I have had four pamphlets of poetry published, most recently After Stikklestad (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2010). Penned in the Margins published my first collection, Steak & Stations, in 2010.

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