Self-Portrait
(with apologies to KBL)


This morning I discovered I’d run out of condoms.
Luckily, I remembered stowing one away in a lucky thong
I’d worn on a great date years ago. The only problem
is that it’s orange flavoured and past its expiry date.
Well, no matter, the picture of my date I chatted up online
looks bloody ugly; even the pix of his dick
he sent me later screamed inadequate.

I’m no size-queen, though my last few dates ended
in some serious length-anxiety attack. Perhaps it’s time
for change. Perhaps I’ve to change positions as easily
as they slide in and out of me in bed. Just yesterday
I was reading my diary and looking at the initials
of the surnames of all the boys I slept with in 1999:
I felt sure the acronym spelt BOTTOM.


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This poem is not entirely mine. I’m echoing a poem of the same name by the Singaporean poet Koh Beng Liang. His is a far more hetero version. Many apologies, Beng!