I wrote this poem in a surrelist manner...

ALL UNICORNS ARE HOLLOW

by Christian Rokicki

Today is practically pteradactyl in shape and incorrectly spaced.
To drink a licorice insect inkbottle ship from my lips-reading isolation.
Plans amber lambswool foolscap typing a flypaper chime
in eggshell telepathy explaining a bone-saw lullaby
using Mintz’s exact patented twelve-key method.
There is no maker’s mark on our platypus furniture
and I am not the hall-of-mirrors phony my father was.
If I draw a line from my amygdala to your hippocampus
I can escape. In checkerboard corner of doll-hospital cloister.
Green felt slippers expunge each interior step I take.
I have more then once thought to donate soaps, combs and perfumes
to the washroom of my private cross-word puzzle,
but my sadness arches it back at the stairwell
decorated with martyred-saint airplane skeletons.
Alone at the point of a cone of the virgin mistake
that triggers asphyxia and a sense of abandonment.
Spirograph galaxies her nerves etch on plate glass
seperating appearances into true and false.
I only ask that all beauty be flawed or Fabion
not a cheese sandwich to care about
like the basketcase in the cathedral wood
with a vacuum cleaner did.
American sign-language untangling machine spins a babycloud
out of hairgrease and neuroleptic gauze.
A candied blood-spatter snapshot.
Unicorn children are shy of transport
fearing the removal of the horns with which they communicate
endless gentle vibrations and vapors of behavior
and none of your beeswax. Walk-away marbles on a map.
To kiss you on the heart your cold hand kisses me on the mouth.