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Your Pope’s Man his advice to his confrères regarding Pleasure
Take the custard apple, for example,
its warty green and purply black thick skin, its body shaped
like a potato. You break into it
as you’d break into a ripe fig, just a little pressure on its fat belly
with both your thumbs.
The white flakes inside look like steamed fish. You prise them
off with the tip of a knife.
You suck them, apple and cinnamon, sugar and cream,
Coca-Cola and Bundaberg rum.
The tastes flow like music over the different pleasure parts
of your tongue. The conversations
you will have with her, about closeness, will keep you a pinion apart.
You’ll have to be as still
as a crocodile, your eyes especially, unmoving in the billabong.
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