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it was Olympics week, I kept hearing

words like Eton Dorney and London,

just London was enough to set off my bowels,

I kept hearing names like Lord and Prince

but they didn’t speak like Lords or Princes

and all the kids had such t shirts and no one

knew where they were born, I remember

one of you, yes you, saying you were going

to a reception, that there would be champagne

and one of your friends quipped they were

all Lords and Princes but you are a Lord,

you are a Prince and listen, I have an iphone,

do you hear me, I stand at the prow of a boat

and pray in no more than 140 characters,

my t shirt is in a Chicago book store,

it rockets up the charts to the tune of Heroes,

no, to the tune of Dizzee Rascal, no, to the tune

of Handel’s Water Music and I saw a Prince,

he wore glasses like all Princes do and he was leaving

a basement bar on Renshaw Street with a Lord, they shared

a taxi even though both were married and when

I found them they were naked and wet and sticky

with their skill, that a storm beat against

the window then as they got started again, twisted

together, and in turn we, we at the window,

we in brand new trabs misspelling

words to get at phonetics, we with awesome

t shirts, we wives and husbands, we said please

sir, please sir, can you not beat against her stony cliffs,

but always the Lord or the Prince or both

would cry out and it was pleasure,

we couldn’t deny that, like a weight lifter

screaming at chalk, at the invisibility of weight,

and the dew on their legs wasn’t dew

and there were glasses on the bedside

table, both kinds, one still half full of wine,

the other in its case, concealed,

then someone said Henley and I spewed,

then someone said that if you go to Wikipedia

and look at either the Lord’s or the Prince’s page

there are hundreds of blue links,

that their lives are littered with virtue, with

validation, with little stepping stones

like the dull monologue of the dull voiced

girl meaning to be witty about

a camper van tour around the country, beacons lit,

pyres burning, and because the window

was covered in spew we held each other,

poor souls, cackhanded souls,

and someone said Horse Guards Parade


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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