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

I went to Mitral and I drove there in the cluster.
My hair was dark and it needed a defence from the toxic breath of my
                                                                                               truck.
My skin was dark, my brain was wrinkled, I was smart.

I went to Mitral to see if it could be quoted in a word.
All of poetry was journalism, and I like to pin things down.
I employed machinery, gas came out, in pipes.

Did it say Malachite to me. My machinery hit rock, it tapped the gas
successfully. Slimed me. Over with a fondle, overall.
I could not have been dressed less provocatively, so it was odd and
                                                                                             horrible.

I got over 50%. Topaz, Basalt, Lapis Lazuli, one after the other I
tapped them all. All I wanted was to be stretchered. One hand fluttering
up like a weak crescendo. Be weak, white, faint, have an oxygen mask.
A helicopter. Be asleep.

Be asleep when they found me, curled away in a little corner of the
                                                                                           toolshed,
cramped in with the giant bluntness of spanners. One hand stretched
out of its black sleeve, like a white racquet. Be sweet, tame, cuddly, have
a good nights sleep. A lie.

Where I cried out sharply, harshly, where the sound comes, when it comes.
It comes as screamin metal. All I wanted was to cough it up, my lungs black
jelly in a void. One hand against my chest, like a faint nurse. Being gentle,
maternal, squinting. its all intuition.

(X: 6656 Y: 6306) This is the dark of Obsidian, we tread carefully here.
Here there be stores, there be lights, there be dark Ketara, beacons, bad
                                                                                                          boys.
A dark crevasse, with one bound, with one Jet, with one block. Holding out
                                                                                                torches,
we feel for its edge. Rotate 90°, and try again. 17.

And in the bright confusion of Amethyst, I swell and undulate my
                                                                                       perception.
Too much gas grows me, and all I ever wanted was to speak it. All I ever
wanted was to moan it gently, last words it gently on the back of a fag
                                                                                                  packet.
Just the word, of Mitral. The word that Is a splutter, hover, howl and
so abandoned. So all three are squares, and you are in Aquamarine,
                                                                                            docking.