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Lyrpole and the Jarg Flim 12

what solace can I find now

in this false song, this coaxing song,

come here, come here and forget

all I ever had, give away

every scrap I ever owned

until I’m just a man in an empty

house of white walls, that was it,

when we first came here we had this idea

that all the walls would be white

and all the floors white too

but then somehow the hall became green,

the green of dirty dock water,

and then somehow the bedrooms became

duck egg blue, more the blue

of water when it breaks free of ice,

when the ice is still clinging in parts

to the surface, and then, when the ice cracked,

your sad voice was saying that you knew

somehow, somewhere deep inside,

your depths of perception, that the walls

would never be white, would always find colour,

something about this whole story

makes me grieve, for what,

for what never was, for what I failed

to achieve, for how there are tins

and tins of white paint, matt

and emulsion, all opened with their lids

not put back on properly, all piled up

haphazardly in the shed so the paint is spilling

and that’s a song isn’t it, one of grief,

that spilling paint, that covering of the floor

in white, that crusting over, that splitting,

that bitterness in your breasts, in your pale,

so very white, so very pure, breasts

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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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