IS SEX FOOD OR IS IT LOVE?
I
twenty-four/ my first adelaide dinner party/
i wore a plain black frock, red lipstick &
no makeup/ gorgeous women turned up/ the
rundle mall secretarial types/ grace bros.
jewels/ with long false nails & blow-dried
hair/ florals, frills, stockings & pencil
skirts/ i hid behind the dining room curtain/
but my shoes were seen beneath the folds/
so i sat at the table morbid & sullen/ after
the third bottle of wine the blue mascara
began to run/ blusher melted & necklaces
went crooked/ buttons popping on the
bottoms of blousers/ or tops of trousers/
skirts coming undone/ blistered toes
eased from shoes/ & put to rest beneath
the table/ scarves taken off/ i remained
motionless/ intent on flushed faces &
sherry & claret conversations/ of first fucks
& sloppy headjobs in the backs of country
panel vans/ the local football club & what
she did for them
II
& of a man drinking menstrual blood/ & of my
flatmate who pisses on her boyfriend/ she who
so meticulously cleans the toilet seat/ with the
strange blue loo chemical/ washing it all
down to the dying ocean/ does sex have to be
equated with blood & piss?/ must we set the
genitals like a table & feed from them?/ at
four/ my drunken father standing over my
bed/ cunts, rapists & toilet seats/ yes i would
prefer it if you changed the topic/ cocks &
whores & children in bags/ pooftahs &
lesos & headjobs/ & how good my mother
was in the bushes with abos/ big bad men &
scumbag women/ the gradual dawning of
the words/ my mother's hand blocking my
ears/ you'll ruin it for her later/ words
coming together in phrases of meaning/
that touched my dawns with shadows
III
the disease, the torture, the angel, the devil/
the prostitute, the pain, the poverty/ she
could not block it out for me/ during the
daylight her fingers tired & bruised/ like
long grey fence palings defining my world/
but the words get through/ muffled beneath
the blankets wrapped around our heads/ we
could still hear the words of sex & death &
his cold pornography/ whilst my mother's
lips dried like two brown leaves/ turning
into each other as her heart went wintry/
so i have absorbed this psychotic society
without depth or intimacy/ where people
would drop their pants as soon as shake
each other's hands/ & now i have to listen
to you/ forgive me if i cannot join in/ &
perhaps understand if i look deadpan/ my
face as flat & grey as a backyard fence paling |
