here is the first part of a poem i'm writing with ross sutherland about the difficulties of relationships between men and women. it's to be an exchange and i'll update it as more gets written.

1.
gut parkas

they make parkas from gut.
gut parkas. you are mine, inuit.
this warmth comes out of you
like street-lamps.
you're a forest and a dial-
for centuries we've been kissing,
presently.

your sleeping arms. i can't
decipher them. your mind
is dark scrub and the tribes
that hide within it. i can see
their torches and their
white-as-skulls. we are waiting
for buses and trains and trying to
get out. i cry 82% of the time.

when we fuck we're not there.
you give me haribo from a plastic bowl
and tell me i look like a squaw.
i get lost in the artex, it's a vortex.
your fez is all crooked-
we are compost, limes.

2.
bona dea

in museums you tell me of bona dea.
i nod and nod, the warder in my cleavage.
we talk about breaking up,
the tongue on a tooth, tonguing it.
you are moving to greenland, then
salem. i admit that to carry on
would be pointless. it's pritt stick.

your jaw makes me wistful.
i like your teeth on the left, a
bolt of light comes off them.
if you were a bonfire then i would
be around you like naked girls.
seppuku, you whisper
like it would get you out of this.
i lick a tissue and clean your
mouth up.

we're science fiction, but
if anyone looks we're rom-com.
i dream of you in antlers and skin,
in winklepickers, kapow.
the criminalistics prove it,
that cup with your saliva,
the fingerprints in my hair,
you're in it.

3.
wagon wheel

you have your lunch-box
with your wagon wheel.
you offer me some by the crater.
i press my nose up to the glass of you
and take a reading.
you are telling me how
things go. i'm
not listening.

you do maths on me, like
magic tricks. you pull a rabbit
out from my double-breasted,
it's a sure-fire winner.
i am in a world of sounds,
bright shouting. it's baltic.

i buy you glittens and dwarfodils.
you hit me with your spork.
i'm wearing jeggings and a coatigan,
half way there.
we're hybrid, spliced,
men of many moons-
through the january stabbings
we're ancient.

This weekend I went to the horniman museum which is now my favourite museum of all time ever to take some photos for my book Tunth-sk. These are the ones i like best- though the human jaw one is sexiest i reckon.

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.

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.

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 .

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

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.

"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.’







next time- fauns