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

Wipers lick the screen clean,
pure as driven snow
white crested mountains loom
rising like demonic gods
of the like I only dream.
Risen like demonic gods...
See the snow topped demons preen
prayer has never entered my head...
forever pressing on in the narrowing light
in the solitude of fading light.
White crested mountains loom
I can smell the heather
and I can smell the sweet mountain air,
yet no longer am I buffeted by the wind
no longer do I feel restrained.
I am sleek, and I am so streamlined
finished like some expensive car,
an insipid show of wealth.
(In retrospect, belief in stability should go)
Thoughts as pure as driven snow
I am running with purpose,
yet I gaze from within
a cosseted space, this cosseted space.
I look both above and below
want something, need something
but hours of asphalt loom,
and in the descending gloom
no longer am I confined by room.
I am running free,
yet there is nothing under my feet
but the pull of my utopia,
want something, get something
and load the magic gun!
Twisted and thrown away, discarded...
almost looking for some puerile guidance
it has to be cut and dried,
its got to be so cut and dried
and survival seems sham.

Getting deeper, and when disturbed
the clatter of debris against metal is heard,
wake me from my slumber
as those who live parallel lives
and those who live parallel lives...
And when you’re feeling caged
like a beautiful but captive beast from the
                                                              wild,
belief can go, you can throw it all away.
(In retrospect, belief in heaven can go)
White crested mountains loom
rising like demonic gods,
further up road in the current room.
Be demonstrative, be cool, be the mystic
be the fool, seek the limelight
seek the tools to fix
and seek those tools to fix,
happiness is never a guide.
Wipers lick the screen clean
white frosted trees shift in the breeze
either side of the road,
rocking gently, rocking ever so gently
listing like ships in the dancing breeze
beyond them the darkness explodes.
Yet I am running with purpose
movement, like a startled gazelle,
brilliant white shaft of light
an endless tunnel of turbulent light
a choral swathe ringing in my head.
The long haul through eternal after death,
with pawing angels, and grasping hands
or the leadership of lost loved ones,
some relative divine guidance,
yet begging for some light relief.
The hallowed gates, those hallowed gates
waiting friends and family, and loyal dogs.
(In retrospect, non belief in an after life
                                                         can go)
Whatever your nemesis is can go
that monolithic presence can go,
you can start again a journey full of sadness
                                                       and pain
or happiness and pain, or happiness and gain!
it’s got to be so cut and dry.
Want something, don’t want something
and a truck rumbles by...
Wipers lick the screen clean
the road is covered in shit and wet
and the road is covered in shit and wet.

White crested mountains loom
rising like demonic gods,
brick and wood come and go,
my thoughts as pure as driven snow.
For those who are tormented,
minds scarred by affliction,
walk the very thin line,
and in exile, and in exile
steal sight from the blind.
Dishevelled, yet if I could gaze
beyond those white crested mountains
open country sprawls, how I long for the open
                                                           country
how I long for open country
I am so claustrophobic...
(In retrospect belief in humanity can go)
Fragments of flesh and bone.
White crested mountains loom
I can see them from the other room,
for the incline has begun.
Feel the chill, hear the tyres grip
see the headlights peer and rip through
the darkness that engulfs my trip.
Need something, I don’t need anything at all
for I am walking cautiously now
amidst the aroma of heather and mountain air
once so fresh and sweet, turned rancid and
                                                                  sick,
and a vile stench hangs like death in the air
I look both above and below.
(In retrospect non belief in hell can go)
And so I walk the very edge
I walk the very edge of a precipice
prayer has never entered my head.
Blood splattered on a wall...
could curiosity better me?
And nothing is pure, I know that.
I can hear screams from the dying
but how absurd, I can hear the screams from
                                                            the dead,
and the screams from the dead
are pleading, always pleading, and pleading
how they beg for help
does their bleating never stop?
And the screams from the dead, taken
like a sledge hammer to my head… and...
and another truck rumbles by
scattering thoughts like confetti.

I am reaching the peak,
the headlights glare, the sheep stare
and a police car hurtles past,
wipers lick the screen clean.
Summit of the demon gods...
Again I am running free, but with little
                                                     purpose
or reasoning left in me
and survival is a sham.
(In retrospect, belief in life can go)
Thoughts as pure as the driven snow.
Open country breathes below,
god it’s so open, and god... it’s so open
and it’s so beautiful and god it’s so open.
Like people know if they want to die...
and the land expands like breathless lungs
as I start the long descent.
I want something, yet I don’t need anything at
                                                                   all
as I start my long descent,
the speed, and the camber of the road
could be heaven sent,
yet it’s so dark, and it’s so dark
that I cannot see, and I am panicking
prayer has never entered my head
and I am panicking, I’m in among the trees...
No longer can I run
grabbing branches snag at my clothes
it’s so dense, it’s so cold,
and I’m so lonely, and I’m so old...
with lost youth at my side.
I can see a cemetery, welcoming,
and there’s a discarded gun,
and who should rest here anyway?
and it’s a loaded gun,
and... who does rest here anyway?
My god, it’s teeming with fallen influence,
yet it’s so desolate here
and desolate.... and it’s so desolate here,
I’m scared, and I’m so scared
strangers kneel beside a corpse
have you ever felt insane?
Pulling back from the brink
another truck rumbles by...
moving… away from the danger
when driving snow begins to fall.

Feel something, don’t feel anything at all,
and the low ground wraps around
coaxing and lulling me,
I have waited for the low ground
when you’re dispirited, you’re sometimes free
and the open space comforts me
drawing me into loving arms.
Wipers lick the screen clean
lick the wound clean,
and the road is covered in shit and wet
an incessant film of filth,
clinging to the running race.
And I am hypnotised
and I am so hypnotised by the swirling snow.
Brick and wood still come and go
and come and go, and...
and out of the wilderness
driven from the maze, and into the haze
thoughts as pure as driven snow.
(In retrospect non belief in god could go)
Whatever your nemesis is can go,
but what about the demons, can they go?
Yesterday I dreamt I was alive on a planet
without people.... It seemed like heaven!