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

                                Break this momentum when it breaks
twenty spiders coming out of my hand, Bunuel.
And the dead wind in the hourglass, sand of the time.
And the two o’clock shadow ripping through my ghost life.
Open the book of twelve apples and read the stars in it.
Magical pompoms on the head of the steaming plant.
This man woke up the morning with a high nod
This robbed the stew of the griddlespoon and snorted
This was cataracted in the head show to beat the band
This was a twelvetone walk up dodecaphonic hill
This tore the shirt off the bandstand and razzed the maestro
This obscened the scene of the scenic fugs
This sold rugs and ribbons out of the casbah of his hat
This chinoised the noise of the mellowyarrowed pleasures
This arted the art of the art scene and cried in his pillow
This went nowhere and stayed in a cushiony chair reading Galsworthy
Back back back against the wall and through it to karma
Because the fuck and the cunt get tired of cursing each other
Because history came up from behind and whacked their ass
Because because wasn’t good enough to tousle the ells in the ocean
And my head wasn’t warm enough to outbeat the hot of the cold
And my feet not long enough to grind the weather magic to a standstill
Where did you find my nook when the right arm went up in the crooked market
And didn’t stand for heil but simply to recall its left
Rippedoff by open doors and the Communist Party a french word Elle
Inscribed on the woodworked wall of a Hampstead pub the color
of I repeat chutney.