Monday

Just so I can stop thinking about it. It is actually boring now I say. I think I even mean it. Errata say that she definitely didn't lose her virginity when she was 9 in the treehouse, he just put it in. That doesn't count does it? We disagree and agree all at once. Since then, since before I think. In a clammy old garage I looked up in the sky and whispered to him: Hello boy I say, I wonder where you are? We write lists of every boy we ever fucked but they blow away over the balcony into the pool.

Mum and her straight back. Good posture like me, she say. Ballerina style. She walked up and down with Bird. Bird was 3 days old and knew it, but not much else. My tits were hard as toads. My daughter is usually as thin as me, say ma. Look at her now! E-normous! she say. I blink but I am cut in half and can't feel much else. The dads kept coming in to see the mums. My mum brought me walnuts. She gave me these cups that go in your bra. They catch the milk she say. Drip, when your baby cries, they drip. I won't manage I say. Don't be stupid she say, you just do. You're not the first woman to have a baby AND YOU CERTAINLY WON'T BE THE LAST.

I stare at families like they are fish. I watch them drinking tea from each other. Here and there a man lifts a child high on his shoulders. Definitely more family than me and my 1.2, the missing element of husband. Husband. Yes, but is he husband material? the girls say. I say well yes, he is made of matter- he is husband substance. They are bored of my unravelling. The villa is throbbing with chat and the linear equations are all wrong. I am pinned onto the holiday like an example of a badly tied bow-tie, the anti-princess. I am stuck in the cinderella phase, my glass shoe fogged up.

MILF. You're a MILF they say. Thanks I say. Men like it, the milkiness. I am the Lady of the House of Sleep, good and bad. Bird is the real child though, and that upsets them. The magazines say if they love you they will love your child. That's a lie but I haven't the heart to tell 'em. It is bound up with the equations and hard to put a finger on. Love is like time, and people know fuck all about that. It moves in the same way and is unreachable. The girls don't believe me, they think I am on the unravel again, childish. I probably am.

Friday

you keep coming back
in a different guise.
first you were blonde with
the curly wurlies,
but now you're dark with
bloody lips and
a geographic tongue.

next you're bound to be
shimmery, so far
a blood-fluke that ghosts
inside me and talks me up.
i will be beautiful
for 0.5 seconds
in a wrist-grip called wow.

we will drink spaghetti and cry.
i'll be crime scene tape
wrapped round your head-
your eyes will be eggs
smashed into girls
from car windows.

you can tell me your
ronald mcdonalds,
and i will slice you
with the letter knife.
one moment you will think
i am the one but the next
you will think i am not
the one.

i'm rotting in front of you
of course. you undo my
bra with one hand,
i think thats new.
if i close my eyes
i feel all the mouths
and punctures
that ever were-
my skin, dreadful with joy.

Thursday

i have this collar and up it
rises around my head like
a ruffle. i am a ruffle.
it is a fashion halo. i am fashion

ed. girlcore.
we pushes the dough into
a diva. washed-up i certainly am

not! i can hold my own
hem. up round my ears. there's
my frillies.

but don't shout about it.
sit with your skirt firm
over your knees. don't be needy,

learn about their passions. rage-

find out what makes them tick.
put on yr suspense belt.
keep it all tucked safe in yr
filofax.

be sistrly to yrself
and blood like cupcake mix
on your licky tissue
will follow.

you open your mouth into a yawp,
gaffer it up and hit yourself
with a tuning fork. grnnn

did your mother not?
you suckle on and tell us
the results. we are winning you say-
our team .

i turn sideways in the mirror to check
my belly. it's still there.
i think to myself i am a landslide,
bright as a butchers window
.

Monday

your shock is a big dark dream-
words take you outward i have sin it.
sin it.

the position you occupy is one of
someplace.
you say poetry & i do.

where i am not
whittling you take the
pocket knife and pocket

it. deep in your warlock apron

twisting
on yr pitchfork.
i wouldn't put it

in the past you
held this walnut with
cc'd fingers

and cracked it til out came
fireworks
of tired trumpets.

we go upward on and in my
dreams you appear
entirely.

i hesitate to say that we
wouldn wouldn't would
i hesitate

too. say! we may be
two sides of the same
groin-

ze portcullis, la reine

Tuesday

i was born twisted up in vines & duppies
ker-ching

on martha brae's palm
white-ragged

and down her skirts
i slid into mud with bare bottomed feet

to my xamayca
a mountain, i think
you are one and your dark clouds
brown-uncurl big fat rain on me.

you are multi-amazing like a
monument
of molten orange spraying tigers
that spell
YOU.

i roll out the idea that laziness is the real
worst case devil i ever saw,
zealous with a cigar
sick-dripping smoke all
over my face.

that bit there is red in my eye and stings, i am
still incase it rolls cold upon my neck.

anyways, you're there and you tell me in your
manly clipped words about escape and
the future and that.

i gets it i think, i thought about it before when i saw you
rise from the bath like from scooby-doo, penis
waving and your hairy strange enormous
brain,
and the drip drip drip of the tap-

and i concluded that really i am
the woman is
not man does,
a wisp
what drifts.

you are my non-killing smooth handed robot. i open mine
and see maps. my hands are welted and if you
follow this line,
you'll see it leads all the way to jerusalem.

Monday



"i was hanging out with polyester (partridge) one day and she had the baby, so i asked her where she got it. she pointed me towards sensual stoneworks, and i was shamelessly raped by a unicorn. i don't mind". second life

i find fauns and satyrs sexy. since i was little i have always found the idea of crossbreeding appealing. is this the fault of britains first zeedonk at colchester zoo? v possibly, though the book ‘one hundred years of science fiction’ in which the work of jj grandville features heavily, was probably my first exposure to hybridism (the term hybridism is believed to be derived from the latin word hybrida, hibrida or ibrida, translated to insult or outrage). grandville drew individuals with the bodies of men and faces of animals, and also mixed up animals which he referred to as ‘les doublivores’. when i was little i loved these pictures which suggested something fantastic and wrong. this wrongness has stayed with me and influenced my poetry, along with many other sick and bad things.

in a bid to understand my somewhat odd obsession with all things horned, tusked and blended i am going to write a series of blogs about mythical animal erotica. i am starting with ‘unipr0n’ because of the title of this very blog and the unicorn’s appearance in the title poem of my last self-published book ‘sleeveless errand’.



my starting point is possibly rogue taxidermy- the art of putting two animals together to make mythical creatures, such as jackalopes, griffins and skvaders. there’s more here. i don’t think i find that quite as sexy as mr tumnus, but still the notion of two animals becoming one fantastic beast is something i find subtly erotic.

maybe my interest in the unicorn was born from this idea. or perhaps it’s because unicorns are often seen as a symbol of jesus, the ultimate hybrid (i have just written that and do not fully understand it). only the virgin could mount the unicorn, or tame it- the beast would put his head in her lap and submit- in some accounts suckling her. perhaps this (along with it’s big gnarly protruding horn) is what prompted the sexualistion of the unicorn.



i have scoured tinters for this elusive (some might say mythical) unicrack, and have filtered the good stuff out from the idiotic youtube videos of soft toys fucking and a sculpture called ‘unicorgy’ that has attracted a lot of internet interest. perhaps people feel more comfortable with this ‘fluffy’ version of bestiality- the pastel, my-little-pony sort.



the majority of other depictions of the unicorn (other than fantasy art- which apparently saddam hussein was a great fan of) is medieval- specifically tapestries, which refer to it’s relation with purity, as well as the myth that the unicorn could only be subdued by a virgin. perhaps women are especially taken by the notion of this, the virgin bestowed with a kind of power, neutralising the wildness of a vicious beast. sex. it could be also said that the essential purpose of the temptation of the unicorn by the woman is to humanize the unicorn. in some accounts, if the maiden were not really a virgin then the unicorn would ‘run her through’ with his horn. crikey.



At dawn on a Mayday morning the maidens came singing to my chamber, woke me, and led me naked to the bath. Then vying with each other for the honour and the good fortune that followed from bathing the virgin, they washed me, purifying my flesh for the hunt, then towelled me dry before the fire. It was still dusk but the air was mild with the breath of May. They dressed me in a gauzy white gown, the symbol of my virginity, plaited my hair, pinned it up under the crisp wimple, and buckled up my sandals. Though it was mild and the fire was burning fiercely the gown gave no warmth and I was shivering with the cold and apprehensiveness: I was proud to have become the chosen one, fearful about what was to happen.

here’s a series of paintings of obama, naked with a unicorn. my knowledge of art theory and politics is pretty rubbish, and interviews with the artist dan lacey are scant. i did however find out that he is a pro-military pro-bush catholic. strangely, most of the controversy they have sparked has come from the right themselves who see the pictures as a ‘deification of the president-elect’. they’re nice i think.

from urban dictionary-

unicorn mayonnaise
what comes out of a unicorn's horn when you polish it. a wonderful low-fat alternative that's great in sandwiches.

‘when I spit-shine sparkle's horn, he gives me a lot of unicorn mayonnaise, thus saving me a trip to the store.’



unicorn combover
during the act of fellatio, a gentleman with an untamed mane of pubic hair combs it over the fellater's face.

‘dude, I used rogaine on my pubes and gave my girlfriend a unicorn combover.’



unicorn with sunglasses
heterosexual act where the female has her mouth placed upon the man's anus, thus placing his testicles before her eyes with the base of his penis at her forehead. of course this may also work between two men.

‘I had her looking like a unicorn with sunglasses.’



video



next time- fauns

Friday

a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i love

i click-clacked down amhurst
tea-sure like alphabet st
was written by me

like wonderwoman i was
and every boy
wondered, wondered

why i smelt like
sex and who i was
sex in the sex with

well, i’ll tell you for
free (i surely am)
and no mistake

i was in the sex with
this new shining black-
haired top we

shall refer to as ‘magic’
hot and soft as
profiteroles

sparking through my days
like a crackle and
BANG

with the trickling red
fire and dark brown
kissings each

one round and smooth as
a mortar and then the
pestle what

kills me up
and opens me in bits
you bites my lips in

ouch and thanks
and cup me up and siphon it
won’t you

come and have a go
if you think
you're

Wednesday

tusks

cone-warm in my palm
your eye fits snug and blinks
like sun through packed-in trees.

if i close it then i can walk your whole
(your woodland in my red boots
grows out my world).

your ivy finds my sockets
and lit-up glades of pink-
the tiny bones that make up feet.

my fingers reach to nest you.
tangled in ringless branches
your hair

is tusks
chip fork under nail
i wonder how
cassette ribbon
gets in the trees

unspooled
in hard square light
unwound of sound
and waving outward
over cold roads

does it hold
the 16hz
stomach rumbling

innermost thinkings
of a tree?

on its rings of neptune-
the dissonant roar
of saws
spinning
unreeled on tape

a nest of clefs
all undone around
the stylus brilliance of
spr i ng-

singing

lost woodlands
in occitanian
dreams of thrust and

how i love you
sky
how i very do
A small tug on my forelock
at the sweetshop lady

a sheela na gig hands me the small change
and slips a chocolate orange in me

Stumbling out I reflect on the fact
that its all rather painful really

and I go home to open myself outwards
to the computer

Later when I go for milk
the swallows make a pattern for me

a vast tapestry of flapping
like a bomb that casts birds on me

I watch them crashing down
and after a time it comes to me

nothing touches me right
nothing gets in my hair like a death doesn’t

and this landscape
full of liars
has got nothing to do with me
golden in your skin
with lips just opening to the sea
you’re a channel

and gone back
to the depths where all the
snapping fish say how do

your face
a world of lions
is secreted away
to where i wake myself in laughing

and i stop to not think of it-
your body
burnt onto mine
like a hole in my thinking

for the man of transparencies
that you may be
i think you could not be aware
of how barley in the wind
you have made me

see, you unwind my splicing
as you arc from the sea

and i am no longer in this poem-
for you have killed me

when i go

when i go
underneath
i am a
spoke
like lightning into sky
i cuts it
open with a silver
aching

i am old
but some hills are
worse
i'm vexed
a mess of blood
and pulp yet
still

made clear by the
tiny crocuses and
sheaves
scattered upon my breast
like the refraction
of
light
on water

sudden and insistent
as a day
you send me to the animals
with your kissing

dark white sky

from a dark white sky
you fell into
my snowy body
like sun

at the window of my
ice hotel from the

pools of your face.
i see them widening
like burst banks
of deep sky-brown.

i'm dreaming i like
the softnesses
of you,
your mouth hand-pink

in mine,
the stretches of fleece
that untundra me.
i tip

the stone cold nights
riverward to the fish
that sink to see me
shivering;

as opening elsewhere
like sunrise,

you bring out your flint
to unfurl me
in the blue orange flame
of your fire

wild hot deer

you open-
palmed
is
red
the spring
of me
a world
of wild hot
deer and
moon all
round of
bone and
cunt

and junk
of breasts my
full-
mouthed
inflorescent
god of
vicious
wet-
tongued
dreaming

old as
whirlwinds
we’re
instantly
your
hot dense eye
sinks down
like teeth
in the sea
of my
otherly
soil
slave-drunk
and new-

wreathed
catkin i
wrap myself
horribly
in blood for you-
your
cutlass mouth
of grim
shimmers
milk-pooled
in sun
dark
as silent

i watch
lamb-eyed
your fingers
that cut me
gut-open
as
love-

us sudden
and certain
as bleeding