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Sport 20: Autumn 1998
Pile Diary
Pile Diary
Day One
There's disorder down there.
Tenacious muscles
pleat and pucker and pop.
Axiomatic too
that if I want to adjust
there's an Arab in the car park.
I go for Doctor Unguent
and ride home in a cab
with forty dollars' worth of Xylocaine.
The sky's a dish of creamy lime delight
forecasting needles, blades…
Day Three
‘What can you tell me
about X?’ she asks.
It's Sunday. I'm in pain.
I have to sit in a certain position.
‘He was once in the navy,’ I say.
‘He uses little words.
He asked me to suck him off.
I'd like him to fuck me
without a condom,’ she says.
In the absence of God and soul
and any afterlife,
sex itself becomes holy.
Day five
Tomorrow, the op.
I'm frozen in the act
of giving birth to grapes;
as the hours pass,
they tarnish and dry.
The clues of the crossword
make a surreal poem.
I'm a cast baboon
presenting her bulging vulva.
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