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

Hold it, Ghostrider! Parade rest, filthy cursed paleface! Pus-encrusted afterbirth! Cretinized lardass! Congealed elephant stool! Bumbastard! What a maggot-ridden pile of hellguts! What a dungheap of crawling lice! What a godawful mug! What a foul breath! Take a bow, stop hiding under that dirty grey gauze! And those bony deadwhite fingers! Infernal skeleton! The latest style — get a load of that manicure! Don’t you know it’s polite to knock on doors when it’s half past three in the morning? What’s up? What’s the word? Show us a good time, one last movie before pointing that fornicating index finger — at least sugarcoat the pill. A little entertainment! Here it is — a rattlesnake’s head and the trunk of a pig, just about your style — the great imitator — the underworld’s ventriloquist — history’s master director and actor — better than De Mille, more colourful than Fairbanks, more expressive than Garbo — the biggest ham of all time — the symphony of life played on jew’s harp and ocarina. Everybody gets in the act! You can do better than that, squawker! I want a raise, bastard! Bend over! Same to you! Been through it before, we were warned: beware! beware! And beware again! We paddled through sixty, seventy years of your guff, you rubbed our noses in your mess, give us a little slapstick paleface style before we pass through that last dim exit. Something gutty and meaty — healthy! Make us laugh for a change, now more blue performances. What’s all that creaking and bellowing out there in the dark? Giving us your lip, weisenheimer? Gas passer! Bowel musicologist! Easy! You don’t get us for nothing this time, we gobbled your insults, now it’s time for dessert. We earned it, bonehead! Making it nice and plain — the doremi — the payoff! What’s that, Godzilla? Sit down children. Jesus! Fine! Ok! You’re the boss. Where’s the screen and projector? Where the hell he go? Oh no, the great Houdini lives again, how did you carry him out when his turn came up, the final scintillating last act of his fame — becrowned career? Not part of the double feature! We’re stamping our feet, we’s paid our dues and wants our ducats back, Guvner! Rum and biscuits! Pipe down. Keep your eyes peeled. You said it! Copesettic! Don’t blow your hellish cool Maestro. Hell’s own Sir Harry Lauder! Roamin’ in the gloamin’ My very last performance, lads! God’s own Christ we’ve heard it before and by the way you stink, eh? Where’s your infernal wife, go snap her garters! Gods balls! Novocaine guzzler! Cheap toilet squatter! Paretic sod! Playin’ around wif poor old Alfie — stop writing craphouse limericks! Thundermug repairman! — oh for the wife of a sailor! You’re about as bigtime as Ma and Pa Kettle! quiff maniac! So you don’t like the cut of our jibs? We don’t like your fantail. Garbage eater! — the international surgeon, always reaming out the federal guts! Now! Now! Now! there! First he’s a starved clown, then he’s the shapliest burleycue broad who ever bounced ‘em up and down for a Minsky nightride. A tremendous impersonation but it don’t cut no ice! Into his act — finally! He shows us a little black girl, a tiny tot — at a roadside Christmas party under a tasselled Santa tree. She’s waited out in the cold with a horde of other snivering little black dolls, she was promised a present — the first one in her life. Old Santa! Old promise breaker! Knight of the Arctic star! White snow. Bitter cold. She’s crying, the tears stream down her wizened little face, her mouth opens wider and wider, her snuffling features disappear, she’s all mouth, horribly screaming and sobbing, she walks all the way home to Electric Street past homes that sag and undulate, from whose sinister half-opened windows come sounds and sights never seen and heard before. An A — I orchestration, what’s the point? Keep your blinkers cocked. She opens one of the many doors whose cooking odours tell of and odd bill of fare — an apple pie green with rot and mould, a carcass of maggot-dripping beef hanging from the ceiling, encircled with bright chromium tubing — Old granny sitting at a kitchen table piled high with filthy dishes. Devil’s supper! Agonized meal! Bum’s stew! Meal of the insulted and the damned! Disintegrated scraps! Now! Now! Now! He’s giving us a change of pace! The king of life and death celluloid1 Flashbacks! What a camera! What a lens! We’re going overseas, a long flat plain surrounded by a stinking black ditch — a circle of naked women screaming like harridans — continental termagents — faceless men in uniform swinging hissing bullwhips — crap artist! — they drive the yelling broads into the middle of the muck — dead center — the distant scene lights up like crystal — a crowd, a horde of half-dressed men and women lined up around a pit of flaming gasoline — benzene — lighterfluid — prussic acid — nitrous oxide — shit! a trio of old hags squatting on a huge foetic pile of excrement — faeces chemistry — the flames and the horrid screams! — lined up one two three, the stutter of a machine pistol and in they go — whooooosh! — they write in the flames, they shout nameless obscenities, one of them takes a tormentor along with her as he shoots her between the shoulder blades — the commandant in an oversized pearl-grey fieldcoat pumps away at an old gent on the ground, he’s had six nitro express charges in the guts and still he won’t kick off — they’re pushing them, tearing at them, kicking them into the fire, babies in perambulators, little children, feeble old men, heat crazed beauties, worn out old hags! Old Granny comes on stage, does a buck-and-wing, and disappears to the left. Paleface clicks his castanets and calls for another time and place — far down the plain to a series of little hillocks built in parallel rows. Whang! Bang! A braining session! Prostrate human forms hunched in grotesque crouches, arms twisted, legs spread out like frogs, a dozen sodden whacks on yielding skulls with a sledgehammer, a horrid scream, a dull wavering moan — a hodgepodge of all ages — bring us up to date! Now a hunchback wearing patent leather boots brings up a flamethrower! Devil’s rigmarole! The hellish din cracks all eardrums — the air vibrates with the music — the commandant prances up, takes off his britches and lies on the ground legs spread as a horde of famished prostitutes give him the bum’s rush. Bugger the bastard! Suck him off! A ten dollar job with carving knives! The little girl runs up too! Does a jerky little dance! Executes a pirouette one two three and waves an ice cream cone like a drum major’s baton! The commandant yodels and howls like a maniac! The funny farm! The broads pick him clean, cock, balls, pubic hair! They dangle the works on the end of a stick — he’s all squiffed out, they’ve sucked him dry, he’s ready for more! — gism! — he comes like a bull, he strains and twists in the foam, the whores form a circle, they center in on the tot as a horrid nauseous stench planes over the crowd — the flamethrower’s broiled the others just right — to a T. By God, the audience tries to rush the lobby but they’re glued to thier seats like magic. Try walking on thin air! Ya came to see the show, bastards, ya gonna stay! He’s telling us! Shut ya face, filth! Yes sir! No crap! Keep ya noses clean! Yowsah! Ok! But nichts! Nada! Nyet! Keep ya traps closed! Batten down ya snotty hatches! Ja! Da! it’s stifling! Hotter than hell! We tear off our pants and shirts, the whole stinking, moiling, boiling, broiling shmear. No daisy chain! Right Captain. you lead we follow. The primrose path, the old oaken bucket, marching through Georgia! Back off commonlaw commandos. You wanted the payoff, now it’s on my terms! Ghostrider turns off the equipment, he pulls the plug from the wall — we sit clammy and cold, horrendously petrified — smiles and scowls freeze on a thousand faces — teeth clamp shut — a galloping case of mass lockjaw. He has us in his power — no dessert no more — aw’m hongry! Go douse yourself. Take a bite of cobra meat. He’s no longer sickly and pallid, no longer hell’s prize spirochete. He’s ringed in fire! — he immolates himself before our very eyes — we’re stupefied with hot gases, his own personal fumes — an unearthly explosion from the bowels of hell — ten cubic feet of cinders and ashes — and avalanche of ordurous poisons cascades down from the mezzanine — a young couple starts fucking on the stage — he stands there watching and grinning as wide as a canyon — he makes them do pushups — he slams a barbell down on their writhing, undulating backs — oh what a fracas — what a blueplate special! They groan and wheeze — they growl and slobber with foaming spit—he laughs a hellish din, he’s big as a mountain, as wide as the ocean, he has no end and no beginning, he’s all arms and legs, he insults us magnificently, he’s coming into his own, no longer pale and wickly his fumes and farts choke us, pulverize our tissues, he roars like a thousand steam locomotives, he’s bigger than life and death and just as endless — he stamps his outlandish feet and the stage caves in — BAR ROOOM! BAROOOOMMMMMM! Hell’s own bull elephant! Lucifer’s P.T. Barnum! What a master! The pulverized couple scream in agony from the depths — he shouts black insults, orders them to go to town — they’re all fagged out — can’t do a thing! There’s a limit! you can do just so much! Pack of wharfrats! Back on the stage child murderers! ‘Cor blimey! Bucket of guts! Can of worms! Pot belly! He dives straight into the chasm, a terrible ruckus! Bits of hair float up, a leather belt, a pair of dress pumps, a torn brassiere, a fragment of carbonized lung and then — pitch dark, an iceberg silence. He’s lost to view, a complete disappearing act. Where he go?

     An abandoned courtyard in the middle of four gigantic moldering tenements. An eerie blue white glow settles over the scene. Flickering orange lights appear from a thousand windows as a huge pipe organ rumbles off in the distance. The little black girl walks slowly across the courtyard. A ghostly hand gives her a stick of purple chalk; she draws the prow of a silver schooner on the cracked cement. An old dignified man sits rigidly on an old-fashioned high-backed chair — he wears a judge’s gown. He’s lost in a trance — he mumbles: “Van Gogh was on his way to Aries and took the middle road — took the left road at the forks, took the right road at the forks, never went to Aries, never returned from Arles” — he’s hemmed in a cube formed by white rays which frame him in a phantom square. Dead silence. He hardly moves! He grunts! He belches! he bares his teeth! He clacks his lips!! His knuckles are dead white and his hands encircle the ends of the armrests. He throws his head back, opens his mouth to a huge gaping O and screams as blood pours from his eyes. The prison cube frames his agony. He screams for two minutes — we time him by our watches but the springs have all snapped. A troop of giant baboons rushes in, each with a cat-o’ nine tails in his right paw. We’re flayed alive, duck, scamper, and overturn our neighbour, we’re beaten livid from head to foot — a young broad waves her checkbook and slashes her throat. A simian giant takes her by the heels and turns her right side up — he sinks his gory fangs in her behind and rips out a juicy red hunk — he passes her over to another monkey who digs his claws in her entrails — who would have thought? A matron bellows a song her mother never taught her. Whistler climbs on the podium and masturbates in time to military music — the richest man in the works declares himself a pauper — the commandant rushes in and calls for more whores pile in pelimell and rip the cat-o’ nine tails from the monkeys who troop out scratching themselves in a corner — a surge of liquid manure rises up from the floor — we’re drowning in shit — Paleface makes a comeback as a Broadway fairy and struts about in tight purple levis — more homes rush the whores from the side aisles — six dozen combat — ready SS men clear the aisles of the stinking swearing, burping, fornicating, buggering crowd — everbody’s at his wit’s end — the SS won’t take no for and answer — they have the brazen guts to give Paleface a run for his money — he screams in a loud falsetto, hides his white face then withdraws his hand and reveals himseld — utterly hideous — the SS back off in horror but draw their automatics — the pale one shrinks into a mummy which they trample to smithereens — he rises again as the young Hitler — heels click! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Hitler splits in two — one half himself and the other half Eichmann — the Bobbsy twins! Masterful reincarnation! Follow me! Follow the leader! Ueber die ganze Welt! We line up like automats — we crawl up on the stage to find the master transformed into a Viennese psychiatrist. How much abuse can a man take? He grabs a bullwhip from behind the curtain — he twirls handlebar mustaches. We’re completely hypnotized—one by one we do a little dance — he cracks his whip and the next one performs—a bunch of stiffs in perpetual motion — number one does a polka — number two raps out a clog dance — the Emerald Isle — number three prances into a minuet — he weighs four hundred pounds — then a twist and frug — we’re in the mid-sixties now — time will tell — maybe the show’s over — who knows? The phantoms disappear, the hall disappears — the old guy in his lightcube takes a fast powder — and finally old Paleface. He played his hand — gave us his all — he’ll be back soon — will he take us? Will he leave us? Do he forget?

     Granny puts her hands to her face and screams — one, two, three times — she babbles and grunts! — rips off her blouse! Big old hanging udders! — four of ‘em I suckled, where are they now? She sinks to the floor, crawls on all fours, she moans, screams and yells her lungs out — she’s seen too much of life — she invokes the name of the Saviour — sees a new crucifixion enacted in front of the toilet — she’s off her rocker, stark raving loco! — bughouse! — funny house! — she sees snakes — smells tarantulas, bawls out a rhinoceros is goring her ass, does two cartwheels, opens her mouth and rapidly clicks her set of china — OOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! MOMMMMMAAAAAAAA! Too many mouths to feed! Too many empty purses! Too much slumgullion sticking in the windpipe! Too many heartaches, Too many midnight fandangos with the wrong men! Oh Lord! Oh sweet creeping little Jesus! — Lamb of God! Oi yoi yoi! MAMMAFOOCKA! — boiling hot bacon! — get this elephant off my belly — where you been, child? — my hair! Put some cream on my legs! Oh my! Oh God! Nothing to eat for three days, when’s it gonna stop, I can’t keep on talking forever! HOOOOAHHHH! HOOOOOOAAAHHHHHH!

     One bright day in the middle of the night — the evening moon shines in through the window, a face looking like a rotten cheese peers in — two dead boys got up to fight. It’s unbearably hot but the stove is cold — back to back they faced each other — the switch is off but a wondrous light shines in — the dishes crack one by one — drew their swords and shot each other. A table leg snaps, the water in the toilet turns to cement — deaf policemen heard the noise — the floor inoleum disappears under the attack of a thousand yellow slugs — a huge rat nibbles at Granny’s nose. And came to kill the two dead boys. There’s no one left in the house. The floor dances and shakes but makes no noise. The stove collapses but makes no noise. The furniture starts to liquify. Who da? The clock stops ticking. The toilet explodes. The doors fall down. There’s a grumbling, roaring noise out on the sidewalk. A pain-racked shriek in the distance. A coal burning locomotive crashes into the canal. The little girl walks slowly out into the street, through the alley to the banks of the stream and out farther to a deep lagoon surrounded by a huge garbage dump. Three silhouettes appear against the night moon. Her shoes fill with greasy muck. She picks up a stripped-down doll from a rusty carriage and plants a last wet kiss on its corroded cheek. A diesel locomotive rushes by and derails itself at the edge of the dump. A surging tide of grease and refuse rolls toward the city. A bird sings its last song and drowns in the cesspool. She puts one foot on a pile of tin cans and worn tires — it gives way — she places her other foot on a rusted metal box — it gives way — she sinks — she screams for help — an undercurrent sweeps her away from the shore — fragments of trash float in around her face — she sucks it all in, spits it out and breathes it in again. A tramp stands off to one side and gazes at the moon—she vomits the trash and muck once more before the sullen waters sweep her down and under. Every house on the street collapses in a cloud of choking dust.