Tyrannosaurus Rex versus the Corduroy Kid - Rilegato

Simon Armitage is the author of eleven previous books of poetry, including Zoom!, a Poetry Society Book Choice. He is also the author of two novels, the best-selling memoir All Points North, a new translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and most recently, The Odyssey: A Dramatic Retelling of Homer's Epic. He has received numerous awards for his poetry, including the Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year, a Forward Poetry Prize, and a Lannan Literary Award. He lives in West Yorkshire and is a senior lecturer at Manchester Metropolitan University.

A VisionThe future was a beautiful place, once.Remember the full-blown balsa-wood townon public display in the Civic Hall?The ring-bound sketches, artists' impressions,blueprints of smoked glass and tubular steel,board-game suburbs, modes of transportationlike fairground rides or executive toys.Cities like dreams, cantilevered by light.And people like us at the bottle banknext to the cycle path, or dog-walkingover tended strips of fuzzy-felt grass,or model drivers, motoring home inelectric cars. Or after the late show--strolling the boulevard. They were the plans,all underwritten in the neat left-handof architects--a true, legible script.I pulled that future out of the north windat the landfill site, stamped with today's date,riding the air with other such futures,all unlived in and now fully extinct.RoadshowWe were drawn uphill by the noise and light:a silver, extraterrestrial glowbeyond the hill's head; a deep, cardiovascularbass in the hill's hollow chest.We were heavy and slow, each footstep checkedby the pendulum of our unborn child--a counterweight swinging from Susan's heart.Day-glo arrows nailed to fences and treespointed the way, first along sea-view streets,past windows dressed with mail-order driftwoodand No Vacancies signs, then a sharp rightthrough a housing estate where locals emergedfrom hedges and gates, pushing tabs and wraps.Nothing for us.So the road levels out.But the moment we set foot in the parkthe lights are cut and the music fades. Andby pure chance, it's precisely at this pointthat the universe--having expanded since birth--reaches its limit and starts to contract.The crowd dopples past. The crowd pushes onto nightclubs and fire-holes down in the bay,inexhaustibly young and countless strong,streaming away, always streaming away.Poem on His BirthdayIIs he an undiscovered species living deep in the rain forests ofBorneo, or is he extinct?IIThey pass him through the boughs of a maple tree to ensurea long life. Thanks for that.IIIThe planets queue up to take the piss--especially the big onesmade of inhospitable gas.IVDogs come up to him and sniff. Their owners call them away.VHe is banned from the front seat of the car for taking hugebites out of the steering wheel.VIHe lifted the seashell to his ear as they said he should, andheard whispers and black lies.VIITwo dozen waxwings on the rotary drier. Meaning what?VIIIWho carried his crib into the house before he was born?IXThose kids collecting dead wood for the bonfire keep lookinghis way.XThey pull a small boy out of the earthquake after threeweeks, but what use is that to him?XIA black beetle scuttles over the living room floor, but it's hardto murder your own.XIIAs an adolescent he enjoyed the company of orchards andstreams.XIIIWhat's worse? A malignant melanoma or thick black hairsgrowing out of a facial mole?XIVLord, the butterfly that is his soul only flies while he sleeps.XVThe ravens have left the tower. Rooks have deserted the deadelm.XVIHe brings out the worst in people. Why aren't the Armybeating a path to his door?XVIIA soluble aspirin uncoiling in a single malt.XVIIIHe wears a Brazilian football shirt to cover the lack ofmuscle definition on his upper arms.XIXCount your friends using Roman numerals--it makes thetotal number seem more.xxHe bought an eternity ring forged from a coffin hinge.XXIThe sun obscured by cloud--his line manager laughingbehind her hand.XXIIHe loves his country but she committed adultery with a mancalled London.XXIIIThe Personnel Department--their collective smirk.XXIVHis neighbour uses the wrong colour-coded bin-bags and the police couldn't care less.XXVHe'd like to be on television just once, even if it meant making a complete turd of himself.XXVILike a peeled onion he attracts germs, thus sparing hiscolleagues from disease.XXVIIThey appreciate his custom, they thank him for continuingto hold.XXVIIIHe avoids leading the brainstorming session for fear ofelementary spelling mistakes.XXIXMaybe it's the coffee he's drinking. He should change to amore recognised brand.XXXHe saw Princess Anne going past in a car--does that count?XXXIHis only ornaments, the traffic cones he stole from a fatalaccident when he was eight.XXXIIHe found the very image of the Virgin Mary in a bakedpotato, but he had to eat.XXXIIIHis one contact in the world of high finance goes and diesfrom a monkey bite.XXXIVHe stands guard over the letterbox all night after the lastfireworks display in his street.XXXVThe foul breath of the fridge when he opens the door. Dittothe washing machine.XXXVIHe doesn't feel close to people until he can say with certaintywhat their problems are.XXXVIILord, he has eaten the cold ash from the hearth. Will thatsuffice?XXXVIIIIt's a case of Tyrannosaurus Rex versus The Corduroy Kid:the evolving peaks of his mountainous spine now noticeablethrough his favourite jacket, his fabric of choice.XXXIXAfter years of solitude anything is possible--even a moustache.XLOh to be wassailed like the apple tree, his lowest branchdipped in a cider pail, companionable villagers kissing hisroots, throwing hand-made tokens of good luck into hisarms, singing and singing his name.