MANILA, 1997

Here violence smirks from street corners.
It sneaks upon you everyday like vipers:
family massacres by drug addicts, gang rapes,
shooting friends over a couple of beers -
the media presents it so coyly.
Like forbidden fruit.

     *      *      *

She rises from bed, squats beside the daily wash
with gnarled hands. A baby wails from a distance.
But she dare not stop it. Her husband would beat her
for interrupting. Better it than her. It knows
nothing yet about sex or violence. Her hands scrub harder.
They feel dirty under all the suds.
But how it wails!



MONANDRY

In this monandry the mourning is done
in the liquid amulet of sleep
after sundry attempts at semi-professional kamasutra
still writhing warm from the translator's hands.
I've tried every feline act in the erotica:
scratching, lapping, yowling, bristling with
a tamer's whip and tramping in black panther suit.
My fingers cruised down your southern parts
but they could have been pumice for all you cared.

And the morning scorpios in with stealth
from the yellow floorboards to the four-poster.
The sting swells my pruned womb,
tomb to many foetal advances.
You breakfast me with a kiss.
Flaccidly, though passionately correct.
Sex is the enemy of love, Mother used to say.
I admit it now - the bitch had a point.