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

Walking empty-headed hands-in-pockets down the Rua do Alecrim in the first weak light of the dawn looking out across the Cais do Sodre at the glass-like sheen of the wide harbor now turning vivid pink & luscious orange & shimmering gold in the first rays of the sun while the sky goes from lifeless gray to burnished platinum to fiery red to silky blue & the first ferries are taking commuters across the bay & somewhere out there is your ship riding at anchor & deep in your bones sits an all-encompassing weariness brought on by an entire night of drifting aimlessly through restaurants & bars & nightclubs & discos & whorehouses & shabby hotels in anonymous back streets & all-night snack bars deep in the red-light district full of drunken sailors eating fried squid sandwiches while discussing soccer & the price of pussy & there in the early morning light & the seething hustle of the busy streets it’s all melting together into one big blur in the vacuous recesses of your tired & depleted mind & what’s called for now is a good strong coffee & you duck into a little cafe there across from the commuter-spewing train station which is full of well-dressed sober people each with a purpose in life & a story behind them & the air is full of dense blue tobacco smoke & the jarring clatter of cups & saucers & the never-ending tired sigh of the espresso machine & the tumultuous rise & fall of voices in a strange but beautiful tongue & you’re standing there at the counter with a coffee & a pastry & a cigarette just like everyone else & no one is taking any notice of you for that very reason & your heart is full & your loins are empty & your mind is in neutral but that neutrality is melting as fast as the sugar in your espresso & suddenly you find yourself overcome with a towering compassion for the entire world & everyone in it at least until you walk out to the end of the pier & jump down onto the tarred wooden deck of the water taxi & are returned to that claustrophobic constellation of steal & rust & grease & bitching stewards & drunken oilers & that sea-going fraternity of assholes & scumbags & losers like you.