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Lyrpole and the Jarg Flim 15

I’ve always hated sand,

never found joy in a beach,

in cresting a dune and seeing

how that’s it for land for a while at least,

once, years ago, I got the train to Crosby

and the beach was nothing then, no one knew it,

so I stripped off and I gave this lung busting shout

because I thought I had to warn the water,

warn my body that it was about to be whacked

by waves of ice, by the possibility

of some wicked current grabbing me

and before I know it some kid

is poking me with a stick under Runcorn Bridge

and hundreds of crabs crawl out of my mouth,

that’s no way to go, running into the sea

only to end up in Runcorn with Widnes

looking down at you, feeling sorry for you,

no soul’s so damned it should end up there,

and anyway what’s the reverse of that,

would it be Reginald Perrin rewound,

dripping, naked, a monster called

from the depths, draped in seaweed maybe,

or a beautiful woman, for the 80’s at least,

terrified that one single drop

might splash on her legs and screaming

won’t help, really high pitched

screams will only make things worse,

won’t mask the truth that you’re tuna,

that you’re a dolphin and the whole

world is echoing, how sound just bounces around

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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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