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

Baby, that the burden of being the fastest thing ever seen or heard

stills the cog-wheels of our intent
towards a philosophy of speed

before something happens and the moment after it hasn’t.

Baby, even his aftermath-blur achieves solidity.
loops of loops of loops of
white-chalk failing to confine

a conductors baton
in the time it takes the slowcoach moon
the paper-plane the humming-bird

the fat man running away
towards a philosophy of speed

hurtling down the central aisle of Concorde.

That a fat man running away
in the time it takes
in the time it takes
the slowcoach moon

Nothing can ever be what it never was again.

That this CCTV shows us, not baby/boy/man,
but loops of
Baby, that we might fuck, die, sleep, wake again

like a fast cartoon
towards a philosophy of speed

to still the cog-wheels of our intent
so that we live, baby, always inside the moment
Nothing can ever be what it never was again.

before something happens the moment after it hasn’t.

Nothing can ever be what it never was again.
Baby, that we might fuck fuck fuck
die, sleep, wake again
our eyes percieving colours at different speeds.
That a fat man running away
man running away
fat man running away
conductors baton red instead
in the time it takes the slowcoach moon
to still the cog-wheels of our intent
Nothing can ever be what it never was again.

Baby, that the burden of being the fastest thing ever seen or heard
    is granted to the paper-plane or humming-bird

hurtling down the central aisle of Concorde.

That a fat man running away
    from himself is the very definition of velocity.
      Baby, even his aftermath-blur achieves solidity.

Nothing can ever be what it never was again.

That this CCTV shows us, not baby/boy/man,

but loops of white-chalk failing to confine
         what flees its own outline like a fast cartoon

to still the cog-wheels of our intent
    so that we live, baby, always inside the moment
        before something happens and the moment after it hasn’t.

Nothing can ever be what it never was again.

That our eyes perceive colours at different speeds.
    If a conductor’s baton was red instead
        of white the symphony they were conducting would proceed
at a slightly slower speed.

Baby, that we might fuck, die, sleep, wake again
    in the time it takes the slowcoach moon
        to circumnavigate the two extremes of our windowpane.

Nothing can ever be what it never was again.
Nothing can ever be what it never was.
Nothing can ever be what it never.
Nothing can ever be what it.
Nothing can ever be what.
Nothing can ever be.
Nothing can ever
Nothing can
Nothing