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

Scanned out of the set, no other way I know.
I know I could do this, and when they ran, tiny and naked,
ochre, clammy, feet and toes, slattern, curl, greasy rain,
oh bleeding shame. I, I, I
knew nothing of their pain. They claim.

Things were new, dewy, unsure, anyway. So fresh the stench of
fresh was a chemical in crumbling noses. Not yet firm, not yet decided fully.
Go either way.

Choices, I’ve had so many. Krakken,
what even passes for a molecule in those days?
What is that freedom? I’m never certain that there was a certain
emptiness before I will set. Lay down. Make static, decide that
if that piece of emptiness and this one would one day form to
made a light, fan, luck, gore, grim. A beautiful, sculpted chin. Ha. Ra.

Was there a taste? Was there a
set, uninstructed, full, kind, crisp, watery, my thought is delight, set.

Paiken. Sakatetta. No tongues to speak, how do you speak? What
air for waves to go through, configure, jumble, creams and balms.
Chakatetta.

Whole, it was there, whole. Already. Kit. Set.
Was there an emptiness afterwards, flake and void, my ideas for blood for
                                                                                                    them
come from mine but came from nothing,
still nothing coming from nothing, chake, a rumbling, a numb, full, empty,
set, wreath and spring sponge prion garland, full but
what is full and what empty? Which?

Even be so far reaching as trait. Waves and lines going down
the lines. Between the lines. How will I have known? Everything
from here is future, It’s just a gift, if you’ll say it’s a gift. A funny fever
I’ll bestow on those who truly understand the tomes. The ways it goes.
Rivers, fever.

The possibility of one day each chak of air carrying the meat of a music,
must have occurred, that each thought crucial as the future one, as the
                                                                                                    past
one, not one, not one, freak but never one,
sterile fail, blanched, nuclear, fish or proper flesh? Skin or is it still, soil
from which it came? Ashes to ashes, crust of the salt of the earth, them
bones them
bloody barking bones. You too can create a fake small model of a tiny
                                                                                               nothing
that explodes, that glows and glows and goes
off, in wormwood, in coral, rubbery, shrubbery,
brother against brother, lovers when they should be molecules or pillars of
                                                                                                wives.
Molecules or pieces of nullity, of emptiness at human
core. I know it was this beautiful, I knew it will never those ugly.

Set that thing that trembles through from a one end to the end to this one
                                                                                                 point.
Coming into pieces or is many one a whole, too many to be a whole,
                                                                                             desperate,
fighting to be one alone, alone, away, flee forward down the lines away.