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

     One of those colourous, decorated, October mornings. The Street full of uncultural dog-doings. Definite slackness in the municipal control. Filled-in descriptions of city happenings to Suit or displease any or none who have interest of same at heart. Pithy sentiments uttered behind shuttered apartments. Pee pee sprinkling of child somewhere in Beaver Street. Increased volume of underground making its way past peopleless terminals of ingress and regress. Books sagging on middle shelf of borough library. Almost a Sunday.

     In his room off Worm Court, sliding head around corner of bathroom to watch morning characterless face being shaved by impatient hands, William Worthwhere eyeing splotch of soap on dirty tiled floor. He bends to scoop up suds and applies to facial hairs. At this juncture, too early to arrive where the morning begins to take on the tone and shape, is to anticipate. Come back in five minutes to see William notch belt and fix up shirt buttons. Step over to closet door and select cravat of creamy hue, a protection for the throat from impertinent winds. The floor boards at Worm Court Mansions move not at all as Worthwhere unlimbers.

     ‘And, three’.

     Chest in (resistant sound of lungs ingrabbing air).

     ‘And, four’.

     Throwing thinning body onto floor.

     ‘And twice as much today means having less of more’.

     Quickly removing self to squatting position to put some test to knees.

     ‘Healthy body, depraved mind — a true balance of nature’.

     Up and up, straining on toes reaching at light fixture. Vigorous flapping of arms. Resignation creeping into tense muscles. Brisk striding towards door. Latch keys out. Mysterious cabalistic fumbling with locks. Chorus of snappings as The Mansions is sealed off, and he turns on heel.

     Jaunty, he steps into Beaver Street. Chest expanded. Make a shirt button pop and feel elation. From up the road sound of motor approaching. Vehicle of city transport sliding to a stop three feet from the kerb.

     ‘And a fine morning to you, sir’. Guard grinning into Worthwhere’s face. ‘More of the same to follow, I hope’, says super-amiable William as he cracks shin into guard-rail.

     ‘Bit of nasty jolt there. Apply my cool hand to your torn cartilages’, guard offers. Making motion to rub abrased area.

     With one swing, Worthwhere moves upon guard, pummeling chest and exposed area of head. Anti-antagonistic cries and shouts issuing from the elderly’s mouth. Hit. Hit. Punch. Finish of hitting.

     Worthwhere removes to rear of coach. Abrased man cleaning blood from face. Muttering invectives. William appreciatively studying hands. There was more to this man than could be comprehended. More to everything, thought Worthwhere as he alighted at juncture of Apple and Beaver. Allow him an inch, then out of sight.

     Sign indicating on building top: Maxsick-Maxsick-Maxsick & Worthwhere Ltd.

     Gong sounding as office door opens to his pressure. Stately chamber equipage. Unfamiliar female sitting at the reception desk inquiring of Worthwhere: statement of business.

     Gayly abandoning the floor, Worthwhere, lithsome William, vaulting the barrier that separated the desk from the ante-chamber, plunking himself of the mound of letters directly in front of startled female.

     ‘Statement of business’.

     ‘Capital assets: in excess of 20,000,000. Outstanding liabilities: here, present on desk. Prospective: nil and nil void. And, I must ask for a statement of your business’. Silent response behind bewildered femme-masque.

     Unhampered by protestations, William made his way into interior office. Placing butt end into swivel chair. Pressing buzzer on desk. When she presented herself before him and a suitable silence had taken place, Worthwhere ventured to ask of Miss Milk: ‘A fine morning it is, not so?’

     ‘That’s no reason to be scaring the new receptionist, Willie’.

     Worthwhere glancing at the tips of her breasts, to shame her to silence. Blushing suitable colour, Milk receeded to corner of the room furthest from his eye-scope.

     ‘Now, Miss Milk. What’s all this over-confidence you’re displaying this a.m.? Come here before me and tell all. Who’s tidy bird sitting at Miss Groin’s desk?’

     Milk facing him now, closer to desk, overcoming shyness, stating the name of Miss Silly. Groin’s off for goitre treatment. Miss Silly answering advert in paper. Willing to work like a slave to make her name in the business. Good reference from late firm of employment: Sock, Scock, Slock, Blanch and Greek of the city. Sacked she was, for over-zealousness.

     ‘Send her in for interview, Miss Milk. Can’t be having spies among us from the opposition’.

     A moment, and Miss Silly standing at doorway, awaiting offer of entry.

     ‘Miss Silly, is it?’ said William to her, reflectively. ‘Enter and chair yourself’.

     Door closing and mounds bobbing as Miss Silly seating herself after legwork. Stockinged flesh exposed up above knee. ‘Miss Silly. You surely have a more lengthy dress to wear to the place of your employment’ (formed as a question). ‘Your attire is barely befitting a member of our staff’.

     Silly saying: ‘but after all Mr. Worthwhere, it’s the present style’. William reflecting on this. ‘But, surely it’s basic. I find it unbecoming’.

     ‘What would you have me do, Mr. William?’

     ‘Off’.

     ‘Off?’

     ‘Yes, off’, said wonderful Willie. ‘Have it off’.

     ‘By which you mean?’

     ‘Surely, off’.

     Meaningless silence.

     Inner debate (inside Sally Silly).

     Meaningful await (outside wry Willie).

     ‘But, here, Mr. Worthmore?’ ‘Off’, said Willie.

     ‘But surely Miss Milk will be in-barging’.

     ‘No. No one enters without advance notice, and it’s ‘where’ not ‘more”.

     ‘Please?’

     ‘Five sentences back you said: But here, Mr. Worthmore? It’s Worthwhere not ‘more’, though I must admit that after you’ve had it you’ll discover I’m Worthmore, ha! ha! little joke’.

     ‘Please?’

     ‘Off!’

     Standing, Sally Silly pulls at zipper at the side of her skirt and shuffles it to the floor. Pink lace under her navel.

     ‘Off’, said William, impatiently, directing the scene with a languid stroke of the hand. She dislodged the buttons of her blouse, baring her chest.

     ‘Off’, Willie winced at her, as the sight of a pink bra disclosed itself. Hands crossed behind her back, she shivering in the morning cold. Breasts free, hardening in the glare of the sunlight reflexion.

     ‘Again, off’ (Willie speaking).

     Miss Silly striding out of her pants, covering exposed pubis.

     ‘And, again, off!’

     Sally removed her hands from their protective duty.

     ‘Here’, William indicating a sofa at the side of the room. Miss Silly taking her place on the couch. Worthwhere pressing the inter-office communication switch. ‘Maxsick here’, popped a voice from the box.

     ‘Olivar? Willie here. Cancel that luncheon date. I’m delayed in conference’.

     ‘Ha, ha’, the voice said, boxed in. ‘At it again? Milk in there with you?’

     ‘I have no idea of what it is to which you refer’, Willie getting out in one breath. ‘I happen to have Flatpub in. We’re doing the accounts’.

     ‘Let me speak with him for a moment. Just a small question about the audit’.

     ‘Dis st Flatpub’, Willie Germanizing.

     ‘Was?’ said another voice coming at him out of the box. ‘Here ist me talkink to you from Misser Olivar’s office. Some joke you playink, Mr. Worthwhere?’

     Caught in his farce, Willie upturned the switch, cutting the voice.

     Flubbed again. Since seeing Milk’s last naked exit from his office, William had been the object of Olivar Maxsick’s odoriforous sniping. Mutiny in the end of the rank.

     Sally Silly reclining on the couch, parading fingers through her long, blond hair.

     ‘Here’. William indicating a spot in front of him.

     Silly sulking on the couch, not moving.

     ‘Here’, reiterated Willie.

     Sluggish Sally rising and placing herself before him glancing into his blue orbs. The sunlight filled through Sally’s well-ordered hair, causing Worthwhere the most horrendous of pains in his left ventrical. Growling inside his chest. Moonlight shining through the rubber trees and Willie stalking the lions through the jungle night, gun poised in his relaxed grip. The sight of Sally Silly sitting on the camp stool by the tent issuing orders in rapid Swahili, her breasts vibrating in the glint of the fire-light.

     ‘Jambo, Sally’.

     ‘Sir’, answered the receptionist, ‘you are wandering’. Worried Willie leaned his butt against the top of the desk, viewing the distance through an eyeful of tears.

     ‘Ah, Miss Silly . . .’

     ‘Oh, but Mr. William, you haven’t touched me yet’.

     As if replying to some unformed request, Willie allowed his hands to stray over Sally’s breasts. ‘Ah’, said Worthwhere, through his nose. The natives were lined up before the tent, talking with Sally Silly. The tallest of them walked to Miss Silly’s side and placed his hands around her plump posterior. ‘Delighted’, she squealed as the men converged on her.

     ‘Do get on with it, sir’, suggested Sally.

     William was dawdling, his hand flapping on her left breast. ‘On with it, yes’, he said, mumbling.

     ‘Beep’, said the inter-communication box.

     Awakening, Willie leaned across the desk to snap the voice switch. Miss Milk’s voice: ‘Mr. Worthwhere? It’s time for your appointment with Mr. Maxsick’.

     Willie silent, thinking with thumb between teeth.

     ‘In.’

     ‘Yes, Mr. Worthwhere’.

     Before Sally Silly could contemplate movement, Miss Milk entered the office and seated herself in a chair to the left of the desk, her note-pad and pencil in readiness.

     Sally Silly stood with her left breast cradled in Willie’s hands.

     ‘Letter to Pigstore, Pigstore, Waxroom & Flamm, Ltd, Gentlemen:’ (hands parading Miss Silly’s rising breasts) ‘in regard to your memo of 29 September in which you stated the figures of liability’ (gently massaging the breasts to a rosy hue) ‘let me state that the two items listed as 27 and 28 are in’ (lifting her in his arms, moving on to the couch) ‘my opinion inconclusive of our prior agreement’. He lifted her legs on to his shoulders and, in a thrice, removed his engine from the recesses of his trousers and fitted it into Sally Silly’s breach. ‘I would like to suggest that we hold consultation regarding these items as soon as it is convenient. Regarding the transfer of property’ (breath spurting in short comes as Weary Willie rocked in Sally’s arms) ‘I am con’ (ah) ‘vin’ (ah, ah) ‘ced that there will be no’ (ah, umph, aaa umph, mingled sighs of Willie and Sally, seeds mingling, Sally slipping and grasping the undersides of the couch, gaining purchase to hold the on-charging Willie).

     Miss Milk softly laughing, her notepad unfilled. She rose and passed herself into the outer office.

     Willie removing himself from the couch, leaving limp Sally lying in exhaustion.

     ‘Miss Silly, your clothing’. ‘My clothing?’

     ‘Yes. On’.

     ‘On?’

     ‘Yes, Miss Silly, on with your clothing’.

     ‘Don’t you think I’m beautiful?’

     ‘Fired’, answered Willie.

     ‘What?’

     ‘Fired, Miss Silly. After the brazen demonstration you’ve just enacted, could, really could, could I keep you on?’

     ‘But . . . . .’

     ‘Miss Silly, don’t look for logic. Not enough tussle out of you. Too easy. I could be anyone, walk into the office, strip you with three words. Can you imagine more of this in the future? You’ve no control, Miss Silly. You would start imagining all sorts of involvements. I must be careful’.

     Abashed, Sally Silly turned towards her crumpled clothing which lined the floor. No words. Another day, another lay. All part of the script. Weary Sally Silly entering the outer office. Facing down to Miss Milk.

     ‘Your money, Miss Silly’, said Milk, drawing a cheque out of a folder. ‘I’ll call you again in three months. By that time he’ll have forgotten about you. We can add you to our rotating staff. You’ll be called in once every four weeks. I was listening. The dialogue went as usual’.

     ‘Yes’, said smiling Sally. ‘I really enjoyed it. Say, how long have you been at this?’

     Miss Milk opened her purse and produced cigarettes. ‘The hospital hired me after Mr. Worthwhere was released. They also supplied me with eager members of the staff, those looking for a little extra money. Now, off you go, Miss Silly. We’ll call you soon’.

     Miss Milk turned to the communication box and snapped up Olivar Maxsick’s button.

     ‘Mr. Maxsick? Miss Milk here. She’s gone. Yes . . . I’ve given him the usual old correspondence. Yes, the usual response. I’ve recorded it, as always, and I’m posting it to the hospital now’. Switch off. Willie satisfied. Psychiatric treatment vindicated.