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

1. January Instinct.

Storm nearly slurred me off the road at Lake City. The hot winter wind hit quicker than a boxer. It wanted my longish box trailer for the swamp. Those bogs full of cypress big toots and coon dogs. And logs that may as well be dancing as anything. I shied to thirty five as the semis wretched by. They’ve got eighteen wheels. I’ve got eight. That’s hate. I squinted for those glowing snow evacuation letters. And after the longest quarter mile of all my born day. Schwarzenegger veins in my neck steered us starboard. We slithered down the ramp like a one winged plane. My brain fogged the cab’s panes on a Stucky’s parking lot. Because instinct only knows - it doesn’t want to be extinct. Good thing it doesn’t always - have the time to think.

2. Rewind To The First Few Seconds of 99. Told Ted Bundy Style. That is: In The Third Person.

Let’s say this person loved this girt for some time. Let’s say this person talked to her a lot. (or attempted to) Let’s say this girl talked to him some. Let’s say whisky used his mind for a fortnight Frisbee. Let’s say this gave her poses and postures he (it) imagined. Let’s say he braved the Christmas palm trees towards her. Let’s say he said. “I have to tell you something. I have to tell you something. I have to te     EJECT

Thought these bullshit CDs were supposed to work perfect. Not repeat the same beat breaking sass all over, bouncing (Her) words around like a racquet ball pong blip. No matter I’m sick of all music already. Can’t handle much more of this whorin’ panhandle. (I-10)

3. When My Living Room Stops.

So much to look forward to when my living room stops. Removing greasy hitches, the stink of sickening dishes. (not Dishes) Anything carnation in this solid gulf is wasted. Religious cards shuffled for decisions of rubble. Diplomacy withers and pain bombs loneliness. Comely vision - voices fade like fear before the Sun. Beat the bones of the day like ‘Space Odyssey’ apes. Because they don’t accept poems about grain at the bank. I can smell last night’s pop corn upon reentry. Or pop in a video, a bunch of rich people, dressed and acting like the poor for even more riches. The neXt one - guilty girls kiss each other for cutter, or cater to the shudder of quick dry addiction. Pop them off in favor of ABC, and wouldn’t you know it, that traditional favorite, the cute and romantic, reclined entwined young lovers. HOW lovely.

4. All My Born Mile.

Birds lined across the lop of the Mobile exit sign. You know I’ve never seen that in all my born mile. Are they flapping north or south with your bored narrator. I would suggest maybe something over the sea, or under the sea with said smothering narrator.

5. Montgomery Next Right.

Why doesn’t she love me? How’s that for originality. Sure I could jump from a five storey building. But I’d probably only knock out a couple of fillings. My mind is Cajun fried from World War brew. There’s nothing any man or animal can do for me. You could line prancing dancers from here to Tennessee. No bruises visible on their smooth anti-bodies. Activate the air bags from their cosmetic mirrors. No tears I’ve been to the Capitol of sadness. I’ve bitten back madness like a bear snout wolverine. Now I’m as cool as Boogie on The African Queen. I won’t gripe about conditions and food like a GI. Even if tm that little girl with her fingers in the dyke. (OOPS little boy, excuse me heh heh)

6. Boxahatchee Bridge.

Now this looks like a keen place to die. The lips of the vines smear make up on the ivory. Hickeys of the former century, maybe even the Confederacy. The only thing missing is small brown boys fishing. Shrink us a riverboat to float this murky passage. I won’t disturb the fusion of structure and briar. I’d lust aim my tired shoulders along the tire shoulder. Raise my arms on the graying balustrade like Jesus. Dive without flips like a straight Greg Lougainous. Baptized by the Creature from the Black Lagoon. So far from vicious noon in the cool green water. Tangling with the banks and the poles of felled timbers. Till the painful cinders in my eyes finally fade. Craned out after three days bluer than rye mould. It’d be great if gators could escape the equator. Get their asses this far north and twist my damn limbs off.

7. The Little Engine That Couldn’t.

“At least he gave it a shot.’ He said. And pulled his cap down tight, as game as a badger. But tomato cans and fish bones rained from slum windows. And everyone laughed as loud as a street drill. Screaming. “You made yourself a fool so you could be that blithsome. But being that blithsome only makes you a fool.” Then they slammed the drapes down with a shower curtain sound, and started dancing jauntily to an insouciant melody.

8. The State Park.

Backed my thousand mile cross in between two picnic tables. Dropped the jack on a block of wood shaped like Hades. My panorama glance surveyed the staid state park. Three trailers on two hundred and fifty seven spots. ( sites ) And the knobby kneed dieting January trees. Their thin arms stretch as if pencilled for a painting. The garnet Fall fashions now all on the ground. Like the dressing room of some depressed restless skinny girl. The Spring collection show isn’t even an embryo. I jump up on the bumper, knock the hitch out from under. Look across the mind gray lake, and sigh.