Issue 7: June 2004
Antony Dunn | Cheryl Follon | Susan Grindley | Clare Pollard
CHERYL FOLLON
Madam Aphrodisia
A cup of cocoa was never so much fun!
But don't look so nervous —
you too can act like Casanova!
And I have all the answers!
Or how six hundred women were serviced
by the one big appetite of an African king!
It's thought that caraway seeds assist digestion,
but they're part of the lovers' cult
so use them in your cooking!
The bed-frame's furious rocking
will be one result
and a lover who will humour any suggestion.
Three gull eggs from Mullingar
neatly broken over
a mixture of honey and ginger
and spread on the cock of your lover
should keep him loving deeper,
longer. Enjoy this little gift of pleasure.
A diet of fennel, lentils, peas and beans,
washed down with a little wine
will have you in top shape —
you've never seen it stand so straight!
And the strength of two men!
Mark how your delighted lady screams!
Forget the peacock tongues of ancient Rome.
Try a single onion
baked with butter and ginger
and scrape of nutmeg for good measure.
That's sure to get you going —
even Rome didn't know such hedonism!
The lands of hashish, strange roots and fasting —
I have seen them all —
China, India, Asia
and know their importance to lovers
who want to give their all.
Try cherries mixed with milk for lasting passion.
You have bought my wares, wise woman —
the delicate white powder
dusting your big tits
will have him standing straight and stiff
for hours on end, and longer!
Let nature work for you in rose and jasmine.
At one time Egyptian monks were bound
never to eat fish.
Perhaps it was just as well,
as when members start to swell
while partaking of Venus's gifts,
when would any sacred work get done?
A man who took a magpie's egg in the morning
raw and on its own
to boost his sexual prowess,
said his wife was always late to dress.
Yes. While he was vomiting in the pan!
Trust my wide knowledge and heed my warnings!
I've heard that rich women and men in China
favour the musk of the deer —
the gland under its tail
pumped into a glass vial!
It's a heavy price to bear —
costing as much as gold, frankincense or myrrh!
I have a special root, quite like ginseng,
powerful, when mixed,
so it's more of a personal recipe —
but I warn you, use sparingly.
There is nothing worse
than fading too soon from the heart of the action!
A ring of straw! An amulet of teeth!
What good are they?
You must beware of cranks
spoiling love-play with pranks —
but not my array —
they're sure to leave you joyful and out of breath!
Tell Us
Tell us of the dazzling eyes
of folks who'd meet upon the Eve
for May Day's wild festivities
and women known for changing.
Tell us of the raucous game
when raucous women chased the men
to sound of fife and pipe and drum
and women known for changing.
Tell us of pedlar and washerwoman —
him the fish and her the heron.
Fast as water, slick as semen
she slipped him in like lightning.
She cracked him like a baby's skull,
played him like a little ball,
tossed him round just like a shell
and slipped him in like lightning.
Tell us of the lawyer and the whore —
him the mouse and her the hawk,
how she caught him by the throat
and felt him there all throbbing.
She slipped her tongue where water flowed
and burrowed till she felt his blood
which beat and pulsed beneath her hand
and felt him there all throbbing.
Tell us of the nun and friar —
her the fox and him the hare
going helter-skelter over the hill
till he lay beneath her quivering.
How she climbed and crawled to play
astride his fat and furry belly
until she'd licked him clean and dry
and he lay beneath her quivering.
Tell us of the jailor and thief —
him the hound and her the wolf,
how she'd suck and take his breath,
his eyes all bright and dazzling.
How she'd prowl around his thighs,
squat on haunches, raise her blades,
run her tongue around her fangs,
their eyes all bright and dazzling.
A Bestiary of Curses
Just like a precocious little piggy
with a vanity case,
you've stuck your snout too far
and uprooted a nightmare —
a perfect Pandora's Box —
everything tumbling out except Beauty.
Nothing's worse than the sound of your voice —
impossible to put on,
like some howling Bog Ass
scratching his flea-eaten arse
on a brake of thorns —
his howls your jarring voice. His arse your face.
You've as many manners as a scrapping cat —
settling uneven scores
in a makeshift boxing ring —
the burst bellybutton,
torn uterus and broken jaw.
What kind of monster settles like that?
Strained and puckered as a natterjack;
the plume of bloody goo
beating behind his sagging eyes
or the stain where he'll die
more agreeable than you —
chilly marrow in a plopping sack.
Like a magpie on a dung-heap,
searching for something worth finding —
pinching through each straw and seed,
knee-deep in slop and mud.
You can't eat jewels, darling.
This scene's as poor as you. Give it up.
That anaemic, scrubbed-out complexion
isn't fooling anyone.
A hen's got better legs than you —
they're firmer and fatter too.
Try a peck of food, skeleton.
Or hide that sallow face in the fly-ripe midden.
Where've you been hiding for so long —
under stones with snakes?
From the look on your pale face
you have been in some dark place
with things with crowds of legs.
Choose. Hell or Heaven? Where've you been?
Any number of monsters, demons, ghosts
and other bloated nightmares
climb and clamour to flee a mile,
including the hangdog owl
with eyes the size of saucers,
when they find you're passing through their haunts.
You'd lounge on some long-haired rug
for a hundred years
on the chance of a free snack
with the patience of a saint.
Patience? Bored to tears.
Do us a favour. Lie there till you're dead.
All poems taken from All Your Talk (Bloodaxe, 2004)