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

We had been to see an exhibition at the Baltic. The day had been sultry and somehow it had taken us an age to get there. Domain Field it was called. Jacob had snorted a great deal and become very thirsty in the process. Wiry, stainless steel, life-size figures covered the main exhibition area. We were up on the mezzanine, suspended between the ground floor and the first, overlooking the gallery.

“The metallic figures are as insubstantial as the exhibition,” Jacob stated.

The figures – human in form though not content - stood, feet apart, arms dangling down at their sides, hovering by their hips.

“They look like cowboys,” I said, “from ‘Once Upon a Time in the West’.”

I left Jacob up there and wandered down into the ghost town, for that is what it felt like, mingling amongst the metallic gunslingers. I could have been at a railroad station, walking nervously to and fro. Awaiting Charles Bronson, amongst the swelling strains of an Ennio Morricone score. The floor, unfinished cypress wood, creaking rhythmically beneath my snake boots. Suddenly Jacob jabbed me in the back, I jumped as though his index finger was a pistol. I wanted to get semi-intellectual and discuss genre typing but Jacob was plain aggressive as he strong-armed me over to the exit.

“That Gormly is a sleek little punk who thinks he’s a lady killer,” he said, calm as you please, once we were outside.
“Jacob, if we want to talk about empty forms, then we should talk about you?”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, fixing me one of his rare evil stares, his eyebrows puckering into some kind of self-life.
“Like when you say ‘Hallelujah!’ everytime something works out fine and ‘Goddamn it!’ when it doesn’t.”

Jacob took offence, striding off into silence; I, stray dog-like, followed at his heels, regretting my harsh tone, counting from one to ten in an effort to calm down, to beat the heat, to not get unhinged.
“I enjoyed the exhibition,” I told myself, “it is Jacob who should be all hot under the collar.”

We took the metro north to Newcastle, getting off at Gray St.   A couple in front of us were discussing a South Korean picture they were going to see at the Tyneside Cinema. 

“But I warn you,” the young man said, “the script not only lacks a coherent plot but even purposefully avoids the usual dramatic contrasts and development.”
“That’s alright by me,” the young woman returned, “I’ve brought a jigsaw puzzle with me.”
And, sure enough, under her arm, I noticed a large box.  Shells of the Western Pacific in Color. 500 pieces.
   
At one of our regular bars, I went to the bathroom whilst Jacob got the drinks in.  We discussed the exhibition a little more.  Jacob labelling it as pretentious, preposterous, repellent and even media posturing.  My passions were not aroused, I was not even irritated now that I was out of the heat.  And this is something that is beginning to worry me a great deal: the lack of passion I seem to experience these days.

It was then that Jacob told me that the man with the crooked sunglasses, drinking rye up at the bar, claimed to be from Wamsutter.

“Well?” I queried.
“Don’t you get it?” Jacob dropped his voice low, “Wamsutter is a fictional town.”
“Well, we’ve all got to come from somewhere,” I said.
Jacob gave his customary snort then opened his mouth to show me his tongue was dry.  A subtle hint that it was my round.
“And while you are up there, ask him, why don’t you.”
“Ask who what?”
“The guy with the crooked sunglasses why he claims to come from a fictional town.”
 At the bar, I caught the barman’s eye.
“Two rum and cokes, when you’ve got the time, Jim, oh and a rye for our friend from Wamsutter.”
“Hey,” the only man standing at the bar said, “I don’t just let any dude buy me a drink.”
“Mark,” I said, extending my hand, “friend of Jacob’s over there.”
I jerked my free thumb back towards Jacob who shifted uneasily in his unlaced brown boots.
“I don’t care for your friend, he’s only friendly when things are going his way.”

I noticed then that a small screw was missing from the man’s sunglasses, though this was not the cause of their crookedness.
“Two rum and cokes,” Jim said, slowly putting the drinks on the counter.
“Well, what about it, can I get you a rye?” I asked the man from Wamsutter.
He fixed me with overbright blue eyes, then relaxed them into something resembling a grin, “Oh, alright, Old Overholt again, Jim.”

I stood at the bar, sipping my drink, smiling at our new acquaintance, forcing Jacob to come over. He picked up his drink, mumbled something about trying to find some Johnny Cash, or was it now Jonathan Richman, on the juke box and pushed off. So far the music had been all Country & Western. Grating.

“What’s it like living in Wamsutter?” I asked. 
“Hot, only I don’t live there no more.”
“Do you have any idea why my friend thinks Wamsutter is fictional?”
“Ah, the elixir of life,” the man from the ficitonal town said, ignoring my question, lifting his rye to his lips, savouring it briefly before sipping.
“Made from a formula written on chrysanthemum leaves which grows in profusion in the area.”
I lifted my rum and coke. A Girl Named Sue, or was it now Egyptian Reggae, came on the juke box.
“Wamsutter?”
“Yes, Wamsutter. If you really must know, I had to leave town on account of I stepped across the Sheriff’s pillow, if you catch my drift, one hundred and seventy years ago. Fortunately I managed to bring this here elixir into exile with me,” he said, scanning me with his over-intelligent eyes, evidently looking for my weak spot.
“You live here?” I asked.
“Up the coast, Whitley Bay.”
“You don’t sound American,” I said.
“A hundred and seventy years ago not many Americans did,” he retorted.

I was about to ask if Wamsutter was in the state of Texas when Jim shook his head slowly at me. I looked around and saw Jacob dancing to Egyptian Reggae, so it must have been the Jonathan Richman record after all. I went over and joined him. The man from Wamsutter looked down on the floor and spat.