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

He understands some things.
He knows the shape and texture of his hands.
He knows the smell, rich as chocolate cake,
of his sculptured body.
Sometimes, when he sees the
thin brown of his skin,
he knows perfection.
one two
counting
one two
He knows how many reps to pound in the gym.
Up down one two
Sometimes he thinks there aren't other numbers
one two
her him
He knows himself.
Understands some things.

When he arrives,
the lights are off, muscles resting.
A museum is the earth's core: eyes shut.
Taut as the night. It's dark, coal pit black: hard.
Thick. He knows she watches him.
He is in the small room at the back,
knocking a secret code
into a box.
one two
The air is still, rare as birds in winter.
It smells of yesterday's sandwiches,
cheese and onion crisps, old men's feet.
An unsteady, syncopated heart beat.

A narrow shaft of light points like
his mother's gnarled fingers at the glass case.
Everything points to it. The core.
Like the tightness of his abs.
Spaghetti junction. Air-traffic control.

He is William Shankly,
Robert Paisley,
Joseph Fagan,
Kenneth Dalglish.

He is one in a long line of men
with minds that understand some things.
It's a jockstrap socialism.
The smell of male bodies. Armpits
A hotline to goal,
the deep green of football fields,
the call of the crowd.
Stuff that makes men cry.

He does not understand her.

Points at the glass case.
He walks to her:
a single step across the hollow hall,
each step the shape of scissors slicing.
Each empty space a piece of cake:
a perfect wedge shape.
He fixes the light above her head.
She seems tight, an angel. Bright.
He watches her, almost wax.
Serene: good enough to eat.
She is pure white: gleams
like a porcelain bath freshly wiped.

He is Rodney Stewart,
Reginald Dwight,
David Bowie,
Michael Jagger.

He is one in a long line of men
with minds that understand some things.
It's an electric guitar socialism.
The sway of time,
a way to make words rhyme
find each other.
Shape to move people to hysteria,
the rancid smell of joy. Soul.
Stuff that makes men cry.

He does not understand her.

He unlocks padlocks from the inside.
She waits, unshifting.
The door spins.
It's like a child's top with a dodgy pin.
Maroon door jamb, a fat old man,
sandwiches glass still unclean from
yesterday's hoards:
a class of National Curriculum five year olds.
A spell is cast.
It is the sound of breaking glass.

The red stripe on his tie
is knotted by a hand unused
to undoing things.

He is Eric Morecambe,
Anthony Hancock,
Thomas Cooper,
Richard Emery.

He is one in a long line of men
with minds that understand some things.
It's a punchline socialism,
the giddy heights of laughs
rolling down hills like children.
The red of a fez, the wonk of glasses,
a hounddog, a 'Ooh you are awful!!'
The deep crimson of mouths wide.
Stuff that makes men cry.

He does not understand her.

He rolls the sleeves of his navy jumper,
reveals biceps, hard-worked in the gym:
folded impatiently, a perfect figure of eight,
an indigo tattoo,
the name of a girl he can't remember.
He waltzes to her partnerless.
He steps to her, a centre piece,
centre folding.
She catches a glimpse of the green and blue
pencil thin stripe on his sock
freshly laundered with Ariel

Any space encloses.
The Walls move in.
His dreams are coloured by her,
and the municipal cream of his surroundings.

He is Valentino,
Charlton Heston,
Steven McQueen,
John Travolta.

One in a long line of men who
understand some things.
It's a celluloid socialism.
The look of an eye,
the train of a romantic smile.
The delivery of a single line
like Pizza to the starving.
How to lie.
Stuff that makes men cry.

He does not understand her.

She is lying still in the glass cabinet.
Waiting.
There is orange silk beneath her.
She is lonely as the woman in Safeway
demonstrating.
Arranged like a bride's bouquet.
She sends out a high pitched wail,
an animal thing only he can hear.

he counts
one two
sweeps up
hopes that
people
will not
come or
else he
will be
able
to wait
contain
himself
one two

There is musak... toilet music,
the stuff that dreams are made of.
He polishes the glass with Mr Sheen,
'til he can see his face in her.
She reflects him like a stream.
She is red: hot.
She is red hot.
She is red. Eyes, heart, limbs.
He imagines it is thoughts of him.

When the crowds come,
he counts them in.
click click one two one two
an insect trapped in a match box.
She is ready for them.
He is not.
Some come really close.
He hates these. Hates them
with pain like the burning sensation
of lactic acid build up.
They press red noses,
red mouths, red lips to the case.
She waits: seems to flick a recalcitrant hip
as if to say 'you're timid as deer at Dunham Massey.'
She likes to see the shake, the shock,
the cool Rock Hudson way
some stay looking.
Others twitch: finely made like a feather
or a chiselled cheekbone.
It is fire to his eyes.

He is Aristophanes,
William Shakespeare,
William Gilbert,
William Russell.

He is one in a long line of men
with minds that understand some things.
It's a well rehearsed socialism.
The reek of words caught up in
a grid-locked pen.
Overweight tragedy.
Slimfast comedy.
Poetry-voice-poetry-voice.
Stuff that makes men cry.

He does not understand her.

He coughs.
It is calm and urgent at the same time.
He is a man who wants the taste of
Lucozade Sport on his tongue.
Her.
He is delivering a monologue.
He steps through the fourth wall.
Silence. He waits. He wants.

As the crowds leave, he takes off his clothes.
He is Shirley Bassey's little brother.
He runs from one end of the gallery to the other.
Hunter. Neanderthal.
Lemmy. Slash. Guitarman.
She is watching him.
His heart beat sounds like Big Ben.
It is as if she is laughing at him
He might be an exhibit.
He could lie here, still as rock, muscles pulled in.

one, two
one two
He sweeps away outer wrappers
of Kit Kats, Riley's Chocolate Toffee Rolls,
Kodak film wraps.
He sweeps away bits of conversation
left at edges. Hanging.

He is Jack the Ripper,
Reginald Christie,
Peter Sutcliffe,
Frederick West.

He is one in a long line of men
whose minds understand some things.
It is a wicked socialism.
Sweet taste of taking without asking.
The smell of fear
The weight of secrets, needing, words,
of things long not said. Alone:
it's that child in the playground.
Stuff to make men cry.

He does not understand her.

She is still there. In there.
Still, still.
Sugar in the lemonade.
She hears the last click click
one two
one two
2,354 punters in one day
2,354 who have seen her naked,
white, naked as a wedding cake just iced.

There is the gleam of his sports socks
against sunbed brown.
No-one will know.
He lifts the lid,
sees her smile.
It is, he thinks, a firework display.
A hat trick.
A clever bridge.
A funny line.
A sultry smile.
A first night.
Ejaculation.
A rocket. A power socket.
Two shapes, shifting bulk
like giant German sausages.
A dummy and the incredible Hulk.

She poisons him.
He knocks a secret code
into the box: one two one two
unlocks himself, unloads his rocks.
Perhaps she saw it quickly.
What to do
coming at her like a paint brush
to a canvas: angry and maroon.

Formaldehyde
one two one two

He is Jesus Christ,
The Prophet Mohammed,
Guru Nanak,
The Buddha.

He is one in a long line of men
who know some things.