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

It has happened again.
About every two years (or so)
It happens.

A sort of belching Spartacus,
I count the troops of my features
Until they offer themselves no more.

They hold, breathe, and count
The pain of my history
In seconds ticking.

I see I’ve been too happy -
The Romans are incensed:
They flick knives until the scars stick like velcro.

I must carry this baggage
Like warnings -
But what a burden for a Scouser!

The peanut-crunching crowd
Still wants to see
Me whistle Dixie

Through the gap in my teeth.
Don’t call me Dodd, don’t call be Formby,
Come in on your knees and offer a pearl falsie.

Each time I further erode like a caryatid.
The first time was a fist on the nose -
The bone cracked and something poured:

I was told to squeeze tight
Until the blood dripped dry
The second time I got in first -

Cornered like a rat at the bar
I raged and flailed
Until the bastards came off worst.

It has happened again.
This time I could have died
And perhaps was meant to

Only I rose like an inebriated christ
Before the foot above stamped its angry boot
To shock the shell of my skull.

Fighting is an art like a self-defence -
I do it in reverse. I do it real strange,
I close my purse

And then stronger men
Like brutal artists
Rearrange my face.

Ugh! Not a mirror -
I am Priapus
Without the hanging recompense.

Am I in the right attire -
Hey doorman,
Hey bouncer.

Oh, my teeth are there -
Thank you for your concern:
And the alleyway there -

Hey doorman,
Hey bouncer,
Take care my halfling stare.

Out on the town
I will again take up the dare -
After whistling Dixie in notes on the air.