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Prudence Chamberlain and SJ Fowler



Bambi

 

I self-identify as a Bambi

WLTM hunter w. own

gun cabinet, GSOH & matricide

urges; we are not Freudians

of the forest in our short tailed

knee length pelts.

 

I eat Bambi with my human teeth

polar bear hunter

lost in anthropomorphised

matricide

with urges; we are not people

of the forest in our short termed

waist height skins.

 

 

 

In the peak of a tail so much

should be exposed     not even the

muddied undercarriage, but some

kind of anatomy that’s smashable

            Look; how Bambi does ice bending

those legs like that as if in innocence

Bambi knows what Bambi does in complicit

slips on the floor, arse high like snobbery

; the orifice is a Disnean nightmare

that we felt-tip out at

great personal cost

 

In the peak of a tail so much

nose up   back arched not even

exposed          undercarriage

but some kind of natural mud

that leaks when it’s needed

to ease the kind heart of anatomy

that’s smashable

            Look; how the deer does the bending

those legs opened as if in innocence

as though a natural presentation

as though organisms multiplied

Bambi knows what she needs

complicit orifice is a Darwinian vision

where there is no cost

when the brainstem is severed

 

 

In the slurry of a massacre

I become a children’s film

It is to be all light & air

w/ some didacticism and a character

arc that is always unfinished and biblical.

To see the marks that being young

have left, that I am fragile and animated

with no jaw other than for

mournful vegetables & spring greens.

The white brash pattern of a drip-dyed

deer who lived in Dalston

with a severe fringe and unusual

way of walking, where

the concrete does not move me

if I’m away from trees, but is a tip toed

catwalk of my furred androgyny.

 

In the pleasure of a massacre

that must be accepted before halted

we become a Chinese film

all light & air character

a teen arc that is always unfinished

with a rites of passage that involves

breeding marks

that being no longer so young have left

that they are left fragile and inanimate afterwards

pleases & does not plague a bear’s conscience

as not mine, as a jaw hides the betrayal

that the other than deer mouth contains canines

mournful vegetables & life giving meat

The blue vein pattern of a deer who lived alone

& whom visited, walks bow legged in the aftermath.

The concrete does not move me

requests for short haircuts

to differentiate between visits, & to ensure

furred androgyny.

 

 

 

WLTM small but audible noise

maker; an incessant talker to

cover my inarticulacy that I

communicate in tupping without

a partner while I’m always on the

look-out for a beast.

 

Will work for food, small but agreeable

christian, incessant talker to convince

of protection, safety, acceptance, then attraction

long enough to allows hunts, visits

communication in tapping, hiding

without.

 

This is the wall of the silent

patriarch that things & us

will be overseen because every wood

however dense has its cliff-top

surveillance these days

            scrutiny is a furred

& feathered thing, a bird’s eye

view & mapping technology

where Google has my foraging patterns saved

 

This is the wall of the silent dialogue

that one side speaks, and the other does

& that sings between them, the act of killing

animals as a way of keeping it from women

who also eat the deer, dried for travel

who worry as a profession

who afford feminine structures

as a discussion of the masculine

while feathered thing, a bird’s breast

is having its back broken

& grilled

 

 

I get someone else to talk me

through my leg bones to better

understand my foal-like nature.

half-fawn & half-brawn

I am the muscled parts of scarcity

what world is it when calves are a source of entertainment?

I personify my food, I personify my thighs,

I personify my Netflix browsing history

& find myself in family friendly

where there are always Kings and Stags.

 

I get someone else to care for the weak

through her leg bones to better

understand my bear-like nature.

half-endless-desire-to-kill-the living

half-I-have-a-difficult-time-remembering

I am my best effort

in a time of plenty

what world is it when urge is a source of shame?

an old one.

I personify my love, I personify my teeth,

I personify my list of conquests

& find myself in female animal friendly farms

where there are always Doe and Tag.

 

 

Walt Disney you should not

have written that sex scene

for Bambi who was too young and so fresh

when it is the orgy of worker ants

beneath the feet that deserve so much

erotic attention                      where the male

does not just petit mort but proper mort

after copulation, as we all know from the movie

Antz, and more obscurely, Bugs’ Life.

 

Walt Disney you should not have revealed

that written destiny of a thousand year crown

for Bambi who was biologically ready but legally young

and so fresh

when it is the orgy of workers in suits in heat

beneath the calves that deserve so much

erotic attention                      where the female

does not just choke but learn to hold

the carotid and jugular between thumb and forefinger

a risk of death

closed off with a slap.

Ants hating babies, willing to die to sting them

 

 

The lack of penetrable holes

goes on to become a problem

for us even when I lift up my tail.

Sometimes I wonder whether I have

innards at all & when a creature is

shot it bleeds a neat line of red crayon

across pathetic fallacy

 

The lack of penetrable holes

reveals a lack of penchant for conservation

traditional thinking

for necessity is the mother of invention.

For me even when they lift up their tails,

sometimes I wonder whether I have

the concept of past

future, empathetic fallacy

& am free, and grateful for what is presented to me.

 

            The hunters are bringing sexy back

where finally, in the heart-stopping moments

of your gun shot wound you become someone

I can put myself into                         such is the bliss

of unexpected entrances in the forest

 

The hunters are bringing tropies back

where in the life giving moments

of its gunshot wound

it becomes something

I can put myself into                         such is the need

of expectant entrance in the dark forest

I put you bloodied and dead on Instagram

#nofilter #familytimes #blessed

commit it to memory or an asylum

 

I keep you hidden and living in Memory

worse for fear of professional offence or self-appointed judgement

& dead in the moment, you’ll come to life under blows

committed to memory of all patterns of human being

#before #backthen #canines


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