unicorn hoax

2012-01-26T06:28:00.000-08:00

1.

clean me

2.

also available in white

3.

i wish my wife was as dirty as this

2012-01-05T06:46:00.000-08:00

to be against things

yet full of yes. your places,
my map of skin and grit,
the tenacities you build.

i move between them,
upon navigable paths
of arms,

your flyover. always
journeying into you and away,

nimble
as a smiling tide.

2011-10-22T15:10:00.001-07:00

there was this tree like a hand- a wooden hand.
some days i would be naked amongst the fingers
like a slice of why. i was a why, a young one-
woodland in my approach, hair tied up in sky.

and i would tip myself out of bed for the
crematorium, dawn winding round me in pink
shouting. it was a stranger with poison sweets,
the coloured bottles i took home for a disco.

i dug ‘em up and would have shot them.
sleeping in the orchard and waking
with a mouth dry as tiny apples,
the dirty black worlds in the trees.

and i talked to the snapdragons,
the boy who spat on me in his hood of orange fur.
they came across the fields slow with tongues
and square tipped nails, right in my tree

like soldiers eaten up by flames. one two three.
kisses making me clever for me
in different dresses. some with hoops but all
with bodices made from bone.

and i was shaped and compressed right in the face,
yet still alight. fingers passing through into another place.
hand-print cheeks slightly parting to suck in the sun
and days like an empty child.

2011-08-18T14:53:00.001-07:00

you have never met such a wizard as this wizard.
he is an extreme wizard with the marking of a
blood-dipped finger placed firm across his outer cheek.

he keeps onward threading his lightning bolts
through her fine sheen of shrug: magic everywhere.

she accepts the wild creeping snakes of burning matter
partly in her dreadful mouth. they hiss and pop
in the cold & olden cavern of her;

at some point he is planning to tear her in half
and kill her up-
hurtling right through her like a world.

2011-08-15T08:33:00.000-07:00

See here beneath my spacesuit
to the spacesuit underneath
and beyond that the girl
with the skin like a spacesuit?

I wondered about you cutting it off
like a cord so I flew
backwards into the spaces
of your naked beauty.

And if I immortalise you
ever so quick before you disappear
in a kissing-shaped hole in a cornfield,
will you become available

as the brightest ever moon?
Words come and go, empty as selves-
though I would like to have touched you
even by this.

Like all tides I’ve become a girl
on a page. Pick up my squeals
and put them close against your ear.
The rush of air is the sound of longing

even now far away
from the sea.

2011-05-27T04:56:00.000-07:00

1.

a child's
fingertips like 10 distant stars
reach toward me
lost
in perhaps. my inability

to use a sextant,
scrabbling round
to land you
on my H

to the sound of a choir
of freckles. i will lie
to you. how close i am
to earth! virtually
underground,
a white horse
chalked in blood.

have i failed to bring you
out of myself?
if i could love you
alone into me, i would.

i search the hands
to dig you out
with astrolabe,
to tend you right
through fiery hoops
as rain.

2.

rolodex of stars,
you have probably
already died
a thousand times over.
the light i see is only just
travelled here.

i wait in my plastic chair,
and write quiet essays
on bushido,
stuck in lists-
my two cold hands
like swans of ice.

2011-05-08T02:24:00.000-07:00

I wake up to the rain, and am pleased
for the garden, dry as a nun’s lips.

I stare at it, growing it out in my

brain. I suppose I am a dying breed,

I say, and wish I was smoking-

at least I was a nihilist, back in the day.

I suppose I am. I keep doing these

Internet tests and looking at stranger's

photos. I can’t see myself in them.

Pouring themselves out into progress

like little pilgrims, the girls miss

trains, their mothers and sisters on them.

The sun comes out. I am pleased

for the garden. Later I will sit in a

bar, talking about things I disagree with.

My flesh will be observed. Invisible

score cards will score my body

to the patterns of pop-stars.

I could do without mine, in reality.

It isn’t me, and never was.

I am a tendril of light, orographer.

I refresh myself and put away

days, like balled socks-

crowing up to the yellow-toothed moon.

2011-02-11T06:04:00.001-08:00

(found poem made from the line-end hyphenations in the first edition of 'walden' by henry david thoreau)

night-clothes
over-seer
manna-wise
wood-chuck

noon-day
elm-tree
hill-top
toad-stools

wood-side
saddle-bow
home-made
bean-field

low-lived
door-sill
in-dweller
beggar-ticks

huckle-berrying
pickerel-weed
piece-meal
butter-flies

sap-wood
drill-barrow
johns-wort
fir-trees

golden-rod
tip-toe
wood-chopper's
scare-crow

half-witted
empty-handed
no-body
-

2010-11-23T04:01:00.001-08:00

i am stood in
that world of sheets
within the rotary,
billowing walls
whipped,
miles from anywhere,
my hillside.

and streams come
off me. prism
white and split-
colour noisy as a
roundabout. where
you been? he asks
and i am never sure,
not entire

absolute sure. see this
bit, i shift my hair
over an ear. see this
dream i made, it's
wonderful isn't it?
the babble hits the
atmosphere and
bends,

pummels its way
to the outer. away
from the open graph
where the entire universe
is the sleep-drool from
my mouth,
the way you see me
hard as a replica.

my hydraulics keep me
in pulse, govern
with an iron grip say
go! and go
i must. i hit the
atmosphere,
body shredding to
filament. i am a comet
of want, a tiny death.

dat rosa mel apibus
you say,
one trouser leg rolled,
a cross of twigs in one,
a thorny mouth
in your hand of
lucid dreams. help me
to help you! i could love
you if i learnt how.

2010-11-09T04:18:00.001-08:00

the day is a brochure,
a thing i'll never do.

reading death in the rain and finding
the bowl of oranges too still. unreal,
until i knock it over-
do something.

love someone
without strangle.
walk to cafes and drink unusual tea,
catch the eye of perfect men
and send your tongue to them.

put my fist through the window and drag
my wrists up the glass-

in half,
like pig heads on a doorstep.

2010-10-13T09:03:00.001-07:00

a vogue of clouds
firm as a handshake,
sends a snowflake
to my violent tongue.

indifferent, she melts-
in thrall
to my shoutless mouth.

2010-09-21T09:57:00.000-07:00

i wandered lonely as a cloud (punctuation only)

                                                                ,
                                                         ,
                ,                                   ;
                         ,                           ,
                                                                .


                                                     ,

                                                 :
                                                       ,
                                                                .

                                                      ;
                                                             :
                                                  ,
                                               :
                            --          --
                                                                       :

        ,
                                                  ,

                                                    ;
                                                               ,
                                                    .

2010-09-21T09:42:00.001-07:00

the blind men and the elephant
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2010-09-16T05:40:00.000-07:00

a rolling hitch, eye splice
and under the skin-fur
a noose, there. if i bread you
out like ginger then
cut you here and there
you might be tiny men or
snaps.

my hand is a nest of cramp,
skinny-jean fingers,
shrunk-fit. i pummel you
slight as bird-hopped snow
in the yolky sun.

here i love you. my beak
of twigs, iced gems-
morninghasbroken mice
twisted cherry stalks, a dagger
of mirror, springs
in your thorax gone
ah ha,

i love you. i cannot put my
hand into you. cat-gut strung
knuckled in bunches of words,
we appear and leave,
top-most of trees and breeze, a comet
burns through us, in a while
the darkness bright as an organ
follows.

my saucer of milk. far away
you send me pieces of violence-
a boy-shaped mouth in my fabric
and your lucian gregory blood
spilled out nice in the road.

2010-09-16T04:23:00.000-07:00

* 1885 Hen
* 1886 Hen with Sapphire Pendant†
* 1887 Blue Serpent Clock
* 1888 Cherub with Chariot†
* 1889 Nécessaire†
* 1890 Danish Palaces
* 1891 Memory of Azov
* 1892 Diamond Trellis
* 1893 Caucasus
* 1894 Renaissance
* 1895 Rosebud
* 1895 Twelve Monograms
* 1896 Revolving Miniatures
* 1896 Alexander III Portraits†
* 1897 Coronation
* 1897 Mauve†
* 1898 Lilies-of-the-Valley
* 1898 Pelican

* 1899 Bouquet of Lilies Clock
* 1899 Pansy
* 1900 Trans-Siberian Railway
* 1900 Cockerel
* 1901 Basket of Wild Flowers
* 1901 Gatchina Palace
* 1902 Clover Leaf
* 1902 Empire Nephrite†
* 1903 Peter the Great
* 1903 Royal Danish†
* 1904 No eggs made
* 1905 No eggs made
* 1906 Moscow Kremlin
* 1906 Swan
* 1907 Rose Trellis
* 1907 Cradle with Garlands
* 1908 Alexander Palace
* 1908 Peacock

* 1909 Standart Yacht
* 1909 Alexander III Commemorative†
* 1910 Colonnade
* 1910 Alexander III Equestrian
* 1911 Fifteenth Anniversary
* 1911 Bay Tree
* 1912 Czarevich
* 1912 Napoleonic
* 1913 Romanov Tercentenary
* 1913 Winter
* 1914 Mosaic
* 1914 Grisaille
* 1915 Red Cross with Triptych
* 1915 Red Cross with Imperial Portraits
* 1916 Steel Military
* 1916 Order of St. George
* 1917 Karelian Birch
* 1917 Constellation (unfinished)

* 1898 Hen
* 1899 Twelve Panel
* 1900 Pine Cone
* 1901 Apple Blossom
* 1902 Rocaille
* 1903 Bonbonnière
* 1904 Chanticleer

* 1885-1891 Blue Striped Enamel
* 1902 Duchess of Marlborough
* 1902 Rothschild
* 1907 Youssoupov
* 1914 Nobel Ice
* 1885-1889 Resurrection
* 1899-1903 Spring Flowers

† Indicates missing egg

2010-09-06T03:45:00.001-07:00

black forest,
your hair is
full of thieves and
murderers.

chop off my head
and bang it
on the roof of
my car.

like a monkey in
the monkey part,
rip out my
aerial.

give it a whirl, kirschwasser-

i am a member of
schwarzwaldverein
and will
regulate you up-

sleep in your gorge
of cuckoos.

2010-07-11T04:42:00.001-07:00

once,
your spurs cut me

deep in a darkness
like light i blunk.
my deus ex machina

pike-skewering all
through me and my
stillness.

you tipped the different
pleas into the tube-
blam.

switched yourself off.
and on and off. and
came and went,

kept the plates spinning
like planets. your ex
in waiting

was me to come,
wrapped in the robes
of your doublespeak-

a factory worker,
sorting through bluff
and magic,

on ice; your need
to stay loved
gargantuan.

you threw me
like a bottle of poems
to the lake.

i am all in silt
and murk and lost.
you go on to hold

the hand of a new me,
interchanged nicely.

your bluster
visits new worlds
to make claims

of some whirlwind of love-
a stolen house ripped up
and shook,

forgotten.

2010-06-24T02:35:00.001-07:00

will you not
just pop
round then,
slot into the olde
ways you
love so much?

and know
i am one big
breast,
a flagon
of mouthings,
apothecary
of nooks?

and will you not
step back
to squint
my whole
spring of flesh
to once?

for you will
change too-
(and soon we are gone
to winter clocks)

2010-05-30T14:10:00.001-07:00

in yr eyes
an air balloon. in me

& by the river, we rock
back and forth

unangry

2010-04-30T13:12:00.001-07:00

light shines upon junk
as if to find a man, a woman
there, a tooth-pick
through her, getting thee
gristle out, that piece of
animal in there.

you hand me the money
and i give you the
swizzle stick. you ask
for a plastic monkey
hung on the edge.
i skewer the
cherry and open it
for you. it's GLOWING.

you turn to stone
shortly after, shaking
like a silver birch
being cried about. OH
you say and check
the map, run your fingers
down my polar caps,
out and over into space-
my dark matter.

Superman put his hand
in the fire to get the
glasses, but you won't.
yours is in your pocket,
clutching at the
diagram you've drawn,
cold yet safe like milk,
of a solar system
intractable,
where you are called sun.

2010-04-10T02:08:00.001-07:00

you fell out of love
with my feet.
here and here, you hung
your wet thoughts
on my rickety line of
bones. i blundered on
in love. you spoke with
a shuttened mouth, of a
system too far above us,
as it was.

and futureless, my
crow's feet led you
outward to death.
oubliette i was and
dreadful, a field
of mines and mine
between
the brotherhood
and silver flesh
of girls unspoiled
that i once seemed to be.

your glinty thinking
is what i get caught on.
my sky-
a thousand lanterns
lighter.

2010-03-26T02:22:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-02-27T12:07:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-02T13:01:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-10-16T14:58:00.001-07:00

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.

2009-08-27T02:41:00.001-07:00

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 .

2009-08-10T12:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-04T10:57:00.001-07:00

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

2009-08-04T10:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-30T12:32:00.001-07:00

"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

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

2009-03-20T02:18:00.000-07:00

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

tusks

2009-02-11T02:57:00.001-08:00

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

2009-01-21T10:53:00.003-08:00

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

2009-01-21T10:53:00.001-08:00

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

2009-01-21T10:43:00.001-08:00

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

2009-01-21T10:41:00.003-08:00

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

2009-01-21T10:41:00.001-08:00

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

2009-01-21T10:40:00.001-08:00

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

2007-09-19T12:47:00.001-07:00

1. the end

it was of no great loss to me. i was an island of great complexity and filled notebooks full of the kind of writing you might have written recently, being of a lesser talent than i.
i was not accepted into the bosom of any group.
but i discovered that heroin is marvellous for the skin. it also has no werth whatsoever, which greatly appealed to me. i left the other academicals at the student union to their futures and headed back up the hill toward my own.
and from that day on i can not pretend i am not searching for the elusive razzmatazz read about in books and occasionally encountered in others who lead exciting lives swimming with the dolphins.
and i would be lying if i said that it is only things with no werth that get me going. and you are lying if you say that swimming with the dolphins has no werth (although i would be inclined to agree) that they are rather whimsical creatures(only included here as a kind of metaphysical benchmark).
i learnt that there are many other activities one can embark upon in the quest of having an exciting and varied life such as travelling, which is country where you go to meet antipodeans.
i have not yet been to travelling per se, but i liked to think in my quieter moments (and also when i recount my personal mythology) that i am, in fact, well travelled in mind, and not at all gauche.)
so, having no money and little sense of adventure, i got drunk for a while and wandered around.
my degree existed only as another fabrication in my Curriculum Vitae. i found it hard to remain enthusiastic about my new career choice. i was a KP where i learnt transferable skills such as cleaning algae off mussels and how to empty a pig bin. i also got to eat swordfish and quails.
but subbing the olive tree for rocks of crack was not what i had envisaged for myself. i should have been writing a dissertation on how kathy and heathcliff were never really in love so that i could go on and werk in arts administration.

2. werking

i discovered pretty quickly that werking leaves you no time to do all the less important things in life, such as washing and forming meaningful relationships with people, but that this is known as getting on with things. or making do. i made do as well as could be expected. i was a genius trapped in the mind and body of a fool. i alleviated my frustrations by sleeping with strangers. here i learnt that boys don’t sleep with you because they think you are attractive but rather because you let them.
one day i found myself living in a flat (which had a poster of the mona lisa smoking a marijuana cigarette in it) smoking a marijuana cigarette with a boy who was addicted to fruit machines.
after a while of trying to understand the off-side rule whilst picking my cuticles until they bled i realised it was time to move to london. london was a place which i had been trying to bypass because i was scared of getting lost on the tube, but it could not be avoided forever. so i said goodbye to the provinces and i moved to a place where kittens ran over me at night as i slept. i got a job serving the london symphony orchestra rosehip tea and put up a sign that said we are the coffee makers and we are purveyors of tea but got told to take it down. i suppose it was not that funny. i was earning 4.50 an hour and working from 8am to 8pm.
i wore black leggings and a waistcoat with my name on a badge. i was certainly going places.

3. the darkening

the darkening is a thing that happens to everyone. my friend has a theory that it happens to most people around the age of 20. this is when you realise that maybe you are not going to be a pop star after all and that life depends on what you are willing to put into it. this is somewhat crushing if you have always got by on your good looks and sheer luck alone. usually around this period something awful happens to you like a painful love affair or an addiction to marker pens. i was always aware that teenage angst was somewhat of a fabrication on my part generated by a lack of confidence and sepultura.
nothing had prepared me for the reality of true pain.

4. the new werld

when my friends and i get together we try hard to avoid being post-ironic or post-feminist or new wave. or new wave of the new wave of the new wave. it takes some doing for the moment any of us has an idea someone comes in and catches it under a jar and calls it something. the next week it is on the telly being advertised as the next big thing. by which time it is out of date and embarrassing, like old poetry from when you were 13.
some people spend a hundred pounds on sunglasses that make you look like a car’s windscreen. i used to werk in an opticians
where i was not well liked because my trouser hems kept coming down and i had to stick them up with sellotape. but i learnt that sunglasses are very much like shoes, in the way that people think that you can more or less tell someones entire philosophy by the purchases they have made.
me and my Clarks did not stand a chance at university. i soon discovered i did not want anything. because when the chips are down, it does not mean much apart from being nearer to the dolphins. which is a shame really because nowadays it is seen as laziness to not want to werk for stuff you dont need. and it is not the best thing to say in an interview at all. often i am asked where i see myself in 5 years and i get the feeling it is not au fait to tell the truth, which is the same place probably, just 5 years older. i think it is fair to say i am not lazy for i am very motivated. if i were never to werk another day in my life i would not be bored. but this is not an employers wet dream by any stretch, so i remain doing 8 hours a day in my microcosm of boredom.
how many peoples minds are dying day in day out is unknown and just a fact of life now.
it is, however, well known that you can do anything you put your half dead mind to. so i am doing this. because this is anything.

5. a brief history of politics

lately when i watch the news i just cry. when i was small it was the most boring programme in the werld. it was bed time and the only time my parents had to argue. but now it is the only programme i watch apart from top of the pops. i would like to go into it but by the time you read this something else will have happened. it will already be history from which you can learn nothing. i remember reading a story about some boys who had an argument about who was the toughest so one of them cut his own finger off. the other one then decided to cut his own arm off with an electric carving knife. well, you can imagine what happened. after a while, one of them blew their head off with a shotgun and won the prize for being the toughest ever. i learnt that this is what POLITICS is, except lots of people who don’t care who is the toughest get blown up too, sometimes in their front room while they are watching the news. also you could not say you don’t care about politics because that was a political statement in itself and could lead to APATHY. apathy was something that politicians did their best to encourage.
in my naiveté i thought that just not fighting would be the best way to stop fighting but what did i know. some times i tried to imagine what it was like to believe in good and evil but i realised that this was only possible if you believed in other things like GOD. god was a man who lived on a cloud and had a telescope that could only see the bad things that muslims did. if you
believed in god you could do anything you wanted to do because you would be forgiven. in this way it was ok to blow up children because this contributed to the greater good ie a world where children do not get blown up. again in my naiveté i thought that simply not blowing them up in the first place would be a good place to start, but then what did i know.
god did not like criminals unless they were on death row making alan keys. he was not into the idea of anal sex unless it is a priest doing it, in which case it was ok because he would be forgiven. it must be comforting to believe all this. and it may help to have faith in anything other than everything good in the world like ice cream and violets. because maybe
if i did then i would not be a loser, i would be the king.

6. school

before the darkening i suppose i was a fairly normal person. i went to a private school where the teachers did their best to discourage you from learning and told me how i was not as clever as my sister. i was bullied for a while for my nasty haircut and my lack of trainers. i was the girl with the slightly off-blue jumper that had a wooden tennis racket and for this reason it took me a while to become the leader of the cool gang.
teachers do not recognise astounding artistic ability until years later when they claim credit for it when being interviewed by smash hits. i got into this school in the first place by writing a story about robots which took over the werld by flying around on pteradactyls so you can imagine the kind of problems i encountered. it is only recently that i have realised that maths and physics are actually really interesting. the teachers tried to hide this from us for as long as possible in case we started asking questions they could not answer. luckily i discovered LSD around the time we were told to write an essay on what it would be like to be a baked potato. i realised that life could hardly become any more ridiculous. we were told a lot of stuff about how drugs are bad for you at this time. telly, for instance, was a much better way of learning about yourself.

7. lies

here i should say that i am not as jaded as i sound. there are many things in this werld that i enjoy such as going to the beach and skiving off werk. at the time of writing i am currently on my third consecutive day of skiving off werk because i would rather be doing this. i said to my boss that i am as sick as a dog which is not so far from the truth. you cannot say that you are not going in because you are mentally ill, because being mentally ill suggests that you are not fit to be doing your job. once i werked in a 24 hour newsagents where men would come at 4 in the morning to buy pornos. one night a boy came to the hatch with a decanter of sherry and we talked into the early hours. he told me about how one time he had told his werk that his mum had been in a car-crash so he wouldn’t have to go in. the next week his mum really was in a car-crash. so i guess you cannot spend your life lying because it will come back to haunt you. i remember when i told someone that i was a narcoleptic and he said he was too and asked me what medication i was on. that was not such a good lie.
i make no apologies for sounding as if i am shooting myself in my unfashionably clad foot. i understand that hard work is important. i have simply never found my niche. i have tried lots of different things like werking in a cattery, looking after children, giving out leaflets dressed as an edwardian and being a cleaner in a head injuries unit. i have applied for jobs to be a support worker, a librarian, a park keeper, a photographers assistant and snow white at eurodisney. once i did two weeks of an art foundation but gave it up to go apple-picking. at school when we did psychometric tests mine came back saying my perfect job would be being an air-stewardess. but really i just like staying at home with my cat and writing poetry all day.
poetry is a way of saying something difficult in a simple way. a lot of people think it is a way of saying something simple in a difficult way. but that is because they are worried about not understanding it. it’s funny how people think that they have to understand things.

8. injured animals

some girls make a big show of how caring they are. i don’t really care but i like people to be happy. for my own sake really. so i am happy. i think that’s a fair deal.
the people in the guessing-labs come up with stuff about happiness all the time- they say it's liquid and a bendy line and u-shaped in voices from enid blyton. i would come across all controversial if i said i thought it’s a choice- people could get offended by that and claim i had a dark-side etc. i cannot deny this. men who are depressed are like big black clouds and they come in and breathe tornados all round your pretty room until everything goes grey and the flowers wilt. women are worse perhaps- flat and skinless, smelling of marigolds. maybe i can only know this as i have been sad too.
my sadness is kind of black and white. i am nearly always being watched. my crying has points-

1. sea-lion sea-lion sea-lion sea-lion
2. the pleasant sleepy self-aware eastenders phase
3. still warm run over bird

after that i’m ok again. i read somewhere that if you win the lottery then initially you will be extremely happy but then your usual level of happiness will return. this is another good argument as to why there is no point werking for things that you don’t need, but it does not stop me from playing the lottery occasionally. you read a lot of stories about the curse of the lottery. but surely it is just the wrong people winning. if you do not have any hobbies and you win the lottery you must be gutted. after you’d bought a plasma screen telly what would be left? clothes and cars and holidays. i sincerely believe that more people like me should win, so we could get out of everyone’s hair and start t-shirt making businesses which would revolutionise the werld.

2007-09-09T04:40:00.001-07:00

Real life is a term with multiple meanings. It is most often used to mean life or consensus reality outside of an environment that is generally seen as fiction or fantasy, such as something on the Internet, virtual reality, a dream, a novel, a movie, a hallucination, or a delusion. Online the abbreviation RL stands for "real life", with the meaning "not on the Internet" (see below).

It is sometimes used synonymously with real world to mean one's existence after he or she is done with schooling and is no longer supported by parents, i.e. the practical world versus the academic world.^[1] A person with experience in "real life" or "the real world" has experience beyond book learning.

Real life can be a controversial term. Some people use it as a value judgement to describe "productive" activities, specifically jobs or the support of one's family. However, many speakers use the phrase in an ironic sense to describe an alternative to their own activities, which may be valued as more important.