Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

   green of trees
      along the avenue    dark as moss
      damp from the river
            a blue road
   (like all the world
                has soaked
       a season’s worth of rain)
       in this cloud-cursed city
            not Boston    or Perth    Vienna
or Saigon
                   this city    (so
difficult to call it)     where we walk
   the street market picking
tomatoes from the stalls     (a nail pressed
            along the red skin
    will leave a cellulite wrinkle
a sickle crease)
                           it’s these streets
          smelling of fried garlic      fish guts
a half herring head discarded
   by the station
         sour urine
                            in
       the dark
                of the stairwell
   a threat
                  that you shoulder
                                     &
        don’t turn
             back

            It’s these days
navigating the city    in
 generic catalogue
              raspberry shirt    after
waking with shits    from bad beer    &
dubious undercooked bolognese

and
part of the crowd
      you pass the news    crackling out
   of a single speaker radio
            paraded
                by a derelict
                                           (a hat
                on the ground
                      a pool for change)

you stare into his mouth  &  see
        something is always missing

         &
              in a hotel
                in Vietnam

 I would wear    a powder blue suit
                deal out jacks
   to the journalist    the old leather suitcase
          (flat on the bed)    pull kings
from my sleeve
              slide them
        into my hand     ignoring
              the lice in the mattress
                          queasy stains
                    on grey bedding
              just fleece
the old hack   &    serve
              the aces    to the young girl
    who pushes an oyster cart
              through these
these impossible streets

&

              when the music of the city
   transmits
              on a hangover radio
              I crave
                     new dreams     curious
              &      huge
                        as a moment above the world
          or an American breakfast