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

The queue fumed. "Doggone it, let's go!" shouted Bill the Buffalo
and Jane the Calamity, gun barrels whistling in the Ramsgate gale.
Only the thundering fabric of the flags performed along the hilly road.
"Darn late beginning!" cried the wind, and a wild Wichita spell
possessed 'The Stars and Stripes' filling the sky with trails.
Desperado gangs with hootenanny thirsts thrummed the town and pier
slaking the bush-fires of boredom, complaining the drinks were too dear.

Reserved Apache Indians with whoops like dying prayers
war-danced, bumblingly, ignoring wagon-drivers' quips.
Grandmas glowered in the marigold blench of sun-bled seaside chairs
while clouds of beery froth took flight, inhaled by the mean wind's lips.
One hour late. Still no guest of honour came, but, startled by our pistol-
                                                                                                     caps,
the all important driver smashed a crate of export beer
on the front seat of his lorry and spurred off into second gear.

And all the open wagons came too, and all us bottled-up youths,
trying to sticky-face the beauty queens, prospecting for lost farthings,
shouting posse things with toffee splinters in our mouths
for spiny cactus. Lame, saddlesore with imaginings,
us kids went home, bushwhacked at the gulch of evening.
'Wanted' poster shreds we were, stretched beyond our little means,
drifting along 'The Oregon Trail', fluttering with dreams.