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

The name of you is Thursday, you come round
once a week. Rolling in for dead, rings, waves, a death

so profound. A pain
in my life, so big a rut in my heart I

am wasting my life. Cruel hurt I could paint with
a brush and my blood, cries I could compose with
a tragedy of hope between my toes.

The name of you is simple. You are
one
and two. You are fiercely truth. Warm and open
like a bowl of soup, hearty with your bread roll of
compassion, close to me

always.

I am none of these people
and I am undressed,
saying your name in the night, saying your name
to the winter walks, the waste, the wasteland, the wastes.

The name of you is stones
and you are a heavy brain in my head.
Your mouth ghosts letters in my ear. Happenstance
creeping into every meeting, quietly I form, I bubble and I dissipate,
                                                                                       watching you,
globular, fascinated.

Naked, and I’m going to go now.

The same of you is hypoxic,
a twist in my throat like an undigested flap of meat.
A form on my lips of a word, words without letters to form.
A slake, a siphon, a ginger. A possibly.

With you. Your scent is on my pen in the night,
a visitor with an adventure to tell the buildings
out of the sash in the night. I write.

The name of you is a mission,
bitter, mineral, arching, a smoke in my sheets.
You are a shotgun in my hands.
Every part of me is hands, and I create you, and I write you.
Every part of me is silence.

There is dead, rings. Dead, rings.
And I will wail my highness I’m so dead I cannot be.