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

What was a bright bee circling, your drawing, always one remove from fashion, always an art, because of the steel apparatus you may have put inside her, is buzzing into the manikan workshop and is lost. Piles of plaster Eves, buzzsaw cracking open the cast, piles of thighs -- how it must be to be you now, unmoving and thus locked in the bonewhite pile of limbs. One wonders if you mistreated woman, if under the swirl, cunt socketed within cunt, a bright surgical instrument was fixed by you up her. It matters, it means my pity for you does not waver either way, but it matters, it matters that torture, even when minute, is still a urine-stain in any artist. Perhaps this is a balance, Bellmer, your human ghost fleeing Germany had to work out the cyst of what it fled and turned her into a rung. A doll. Pile of balls. Blood gown. Twisted black wire mesh. Women lost within women. Plump penis in egg-cup. Man with nightmare face glued on anal entry. She unzips her side, the brick within. You did not give in. A girl of twelve gathers in, indignant, furious and glowing, your enormous mass of tendons. She has left her Mary Jane shoes out in the rain. She is stooping on her Paris doorstep. She is struggling grimly in a clearing with a giant squid. She is stooping superimposed on struggling, she is not a girl but a swirl of meanings, she is eating the cock in the egg-cup with a spoon, she is extracting your arteries. And the doctor who comes to your side is not a priest but a workman come to the side of a woman in labor. Nothing ties together, everything is incomplete, and the sun on the bonewhite washed head of the world.