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

A slow walk across the bluebell beach,
and through the spring tide blue. We are through ... and through.

If you gave me a rose and kissed my rose-hip lips, I’d reject you.
Your sweet tan hands across my sun-warm hair, across the ocean
of that chasm, the grace and silence where you never speak,
but oh ... your long eyes look at mine.

There, and there ... and there your breath would be the air,
and all the world would pull so deep, and suck at you .. look at you .. with
                                                                                             me, with me.

And there ... floating ... towards the skin of the edge of the world.
It looks like a skin of fire, it looks like an alien skin.
Agar mayamar.

Oh I am certainly aware of your strong romantic attraction to me.

I am full
of this silver fish, I am full of this silicon lie.
I am full of these bluebell branches, you are full of me.
Of everything ... and everything you know of me.
We are the green sea of information, born so free.

How close you’d draw me in the evil night.
Fill me full with fire while I’d lie there cold
and wet. I’ll guide you.

Beached in your bed, shored up by your waves, and you’d love me,
love me ... windswept, open-mouthed and fighting ... the devil in my battle,
struggling with the devil, my sexual hand on his ligaments, my maternal
                                                                           hand on his [leg muscle].
I never you knew you thought me reckless.

Oh I explore these dead and lightless regions ... forming bridges of my
                                                                                                       body,
patches of me pink ... with passion ... places on me gravel, ageing.
Still, you’d take me, roll across me.

To you I smell of the sea-salt air with my piquant pecan senses,
to you, I feel of ... holding it tightly ... and slipping with motion, the gravity
                                                                                                     plating,
the planet, impressive, restlessly peaceful, the worst case scenario.

Making little fearless hating soldiers out of cells of me ...
having lizard babies, having no babies,
till it’s too late, knowing maybe ... fearing maybe maybe maybe
I am made of the silver blood.
Gone ... you’re holding my poor, sore, cyborg hand.

I’d have to give up to surrender to you ... that will never happen.