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

Ten past six. We lug
offal that sweats with fat;
yawn and grunt. No-one
says a word till breakfast.

In the fag-yellow canteen
thick with porn mags,
the lads bait Reg
who always wears a tie.

He has dainty sandwiches
in his Tupperware box.
Each day he refuses
to make the tea, the cunt.

Lennie knows the funniest
man in the world. It’s him.
He swears like a bloody trooper
about this bastard geezer,

Chilham way, who smacks a deer
and gets in a fucking scrap
with this other mush
over who’s having it;

no messing. Lennie screws up
his eyes and laughs himself
stupid before pissing off
to fill the shitting kettle.

“Mad cow disease,” nods Adrian,
man of few words. Everyone
whispers in my first week
that his kid’s handicapped,

mental. He’s proud though:
who in the place can bung
most bags down the conveyor;
and, in the four minute warning,

have a wrist job over--
across any centre spread,
‘specially a darkie?' He grins,
poking the tea with a screwdriver.

Les eats one sandwich.
Cheddar, again. We sup up,
drift off to the carzey
for a dump on the firm.

The conveyor's sacks of feed
I oik onto palettes or drop.
It’s fun watching their guts
split before I put in the boot.

Their weight takes the piss.
I know each smell, label,
percentage of hormones and crud.
The radio jabbers, gets under

the skin. We’re battery labour.
But tonight we’ll break out,
go wild, clubbing. Half-cut,
we’ll be humping the offal.

We take five, nicking off
for a smoke, leaving all
the machines to grind themselves
to bastard dust. Killing

time, we stare at the river
collapsing into the mill. Or
play chicken with Lennie
tied to the fork-lift.

Or jump Reg for straying
up our end of the warehouse,
Brylcreem his hair with Swarfega
and rough him up. Or,

when the cry goes up,
chase the scattering rats,
kick the shit out of them--
their insides shiny and neat.