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

hit spar for late shopping, queue at the grill, bloke at the front asks

“any milk?”

assistant takes his key out of the till walks along counter lifts flap negotiates half empty boxes spilt packs down the end of the aisle to the cooler cabinets at the back of the store (we entertain ourselves while he’s gone, hallucinogens & stripglow of spar), picks up a pinta fullfat & returns to the counter, walks to the grill sticks key in the till hands over carton & sez

“anything else sir?”

bloke sez

“I wanted skimmed”

the queue goes uproar: half ina rush to get home, half off their faces & pissing themselves as assistant has ta go thro it all over.

we gess chatting to the girls ahead, they wait as someone serves us (we order beer, bogroll, loaf of bread, disposable lighters, chocolate, rizla, cigarettes, o & a coupla porkpies: buffet size: all they had). the staff say

“enjoy yourselves/have fun/be safe”

knowing what they’re selling & to whom & when (more than most of their customers aware; the girls on chocolate comedowns, the blokes grow impotent but too stoned to care).

girls in queue been drinking at angel hotel

angel hotel: where norman bates was arrested for possession of cannabis posted from his missus in states; intercepted by customs & sent on its way; longhaul across atlantic for the sake of a setup fuh fucksake

the angel: where major major delivered a speech to the local representatives of the conservative party told them & the world how the city of cardiff was leading the united kingdom outa recession i mean: i still got an egg with his name on it

angel: where a student bumps into a bloke off the box, next thing: his wife declares frontpage disgust at the sight of his boxer shorts on a redtop bust

the angel: jus down from the toucan & canton bridge where washup south walians whove jumpt in pisst at the prospect of never finding work/love/their home/their feet (the taff/ely/ newport usk: none of em can cope with the rush; if the tides don’t get em crohn’s disease will shut the poor fuckers up); barmy balmy nites crossing canton bridge into riverside/ überterritory across the city/self-proclaimed artists’ quarter or (fuckem) muggers’ paradise/sorry, not riverside, it’s pontcanna dahrling

the angel: over from the great shitbrain zoo where animals clamber walls/turn ta stone/ attempt escape to the filthy orangefilter glow bouncing of f shop panes/over the wails of citycastle into backalley deaths & towercranes above the arms park...

spermspew gardens of sophia; prozzies, arseholes, mounted police on undercover coming to the sound of car alarms, hotwires, helicopters flashing over head, handcuff & baton fuelled by a desire to put this youngbastard to bed...

a reservoir of effluent breaks its dam/bursts taff embankments, an orgasm uninterrupted by shitpushing dogs walkt by waterprooft wankers unaware of the parkbench shiftshank shafters of gaysex cardiff parks at nite, or maybe aware; that’s why they go there: the loudest complaints from those who refuse to alter their route / cheapthrills for the righteous unaware it’s their ilk who hide under moon & if unlucky: arrested: the zoo patrolled by titheaded horsefuckers riding beamfields / secret invasions litup & collared by legal uniform fetishists wank to a manjack of em; nocturnal promenaders kaarn av no privacy their individual wants trapt in public lavatories; agent provocateurs getting what they want themselves then arresting their young devotees, satisfaction no guarantee of freedom, but later released: the evidence didn’t stick / still stuck in a copper’s belly...

youngcocks prod holes in chipboard panels / names & numbers scrawl promised examples of secret lust (who’s most disgusting lads: those who cottage or those who’d merrily beat the living fuck? it’s pretty fuckin obvious: you doan wanna suckysuck? then wait til st. mary street where we’re all allowed the pavement as lavatory / where a canvas lion guards against cockwatchers / scatmongers / police officers as we chuck, piss & punch streetsleepers / taxis / anything dulld enuf to hang long enuf ona bogstandard fridee nite down from the valleys, ready for the shuffling satdee shop crew who learn to shut their collective nose & mouth first thing in the morning, someone burn the lion out befor he sees too much. you have already. tidy. whad? he look at you funny? hairy fuckin cunt...)

the angel: the students in queue who invite us to party. o yeh. nice touch.

& the cheap beer claimed ‘premier’ so we drank it while walking down street & up stairs to settee, prepare for the rest of the eve tho now it’s deepnite, clearly.

*

city road:

flyposters announcing

‘late nite flava’

(i see phantasia’s shut again)

a stagger of moonbeaters pass the 9-til-5’s not fusst about finding ways home / too busy filling face wi burgers, kebabs, & kinell! a bag fulla donuts (stay away from the hole).

city road:

helicopters tracking video pirates & raving airwave buccaneers careening careering stolen cars with stereo at maximum / handbrake turns into

bedford street:

campervans wired up to the neons (free’ electric thro the nite, a dodgy gas canister leaks on the quiet, come morning: fifty-a-day-man stops alongside, sparks up & takes half the street sky hi. for a whole day it’ll rain ikea & habitat: bedford refurnished, sodium bright)

some kid leans & shouts outs upstairs window

“mayday! mayday!”

mother screams from neighbour’s bed

“get ta sleep ya little bastard or I’ll take ya mobile away”

up & inta tha next road not straight enuf to care / nearly knockt over by a big red&blue:
fucka nearly killed us; anyoned think there was a fire or sumit

“o; right; yeh”

we ain’t quite withit today.

sign in the window of a zenbuddhist temple

‘p/t staff required (apply within)’

(“part time zen? sowasasaden?”)

my knees go when we slow in the dark, so keep walking.

*

phonebox outside policestat:

couple in there having a bit, heard they do it regular / every opportunity / any event / wherever they can get their coin in the slot / whenever they can hear the pips run out.

sapphire street:

proposed site of streetlite marked in yellow paint

‘SoL’

           (the ‘o’ shows the base of the column / where It will enter the public slab / already vibrates whitefinger); sense of reassurance seeing trees grow thru turning bay / turning circle / bubbling the tarmac

& outside the postoff on clifton street the belisha’s stuckup ta glory from hands from prams / fulla halfeaten sweets, the sweat off a protest stickers, pensioners, dolees, the fear of people tryna cross between a thousand daily sandwich stops who gotta get back quick fuck those on their feet they can wait we’re busy.

charity shop on same side of street sells viscount tonypandy’s suits (tailored or not they still don’t fit tho i did buy a blacktie on me way to a funeral) & the shoebox markt ‘literature’ bare but for mills&boon, studynotes & the occasional political memoir.

copper street:

‘bomb rhiwbina’

(made up graffiti)

a deserted television (bare wire showing, plug pliered off), hooch bottles smashtup to the mosque. in background: the flying buttressed at. german’s church, echoes from king of the nippers heard ….

as i cross to ruby some ragtag pussycat straight outs the neighbourhood (spot from splott possibly) gives a dirty look.

ruby street / curry street:

‘queer’

(sprayed on sidewall of woolies)

outside 2⁵ is inexpicably written

‘i don’t love you’

not even

     ‘anymore’

      to align with context;

to define the loss.