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

Your consolation
in Fifties confession
a sequential famine
information devoured
in the ocean of dead metaphors
expressionless faces
brought up to be good
or nicely collapsing
into the fruit of denouement
a captured print
ground into thin branches
of mescaline, jazz violins, anemones
you can even taste
what troubles the parochial code
somewhere it happened
you cannot tell yourself
wherever it was
that antennae curved
to the suicidal vulnerability
beginning in fourth grade
somewhere you demanded Montana
it was what you needed
at the time, going public
a speculation of being male
only for a most distant trip
another easy way
outside the nest egg
ego made eros
accurate blank punishment
that made you unpopular
in your traverse school,
to hold applause
is to forsake division
and against family wishes’ sake
of present company, ex cathedra
and the gold digging peace they call
                                                     appeasement
you fought the silica killers
full of sawdust landslides, earthquakes
bloated insurance salesmen
and high-heeled bed companions
carefully polished voices
but inside the human wound
your world was invisible,
packed into neon
blind greetings
religious eroticism
all made of evening wear
without a shadowy witness
cut out of calcined autumns
somewhere the Pacific
rimmed the other Atlantis,
the one which is unspoken
that is myth, gods, serpents
essentially the underworld
where in ridiculous parlors
they look for the medium
nowhere to be found
in the diamond mined maps
of Butte striking upon
the cold wages
of death defying duration
and winter routes
the solitary sings
all that ultimate silence
which translates into,
“the last romanticism
is our own.”