Sunday, December 3, 2006

The Waist Line

Attife, attife, ute ibe orfe
ouldntce etge oughthre uthre athroombe orde.

— Ezra Tonne

I. The Burial of the Bread.

April is the cruellest month, bringing
Bikinis out of cold storage, filling
The shelves with sun-screen,
Reminders of skimpy beachwear.
Summer exposed us, gut hanging over our speedos.

And the children were frightened . He said Merry
Christmas, and when he was done, he looked
At his mountainous belly, and felt fat.
“I feed much of the time and get stout in winter.”

Doctor Atkins, famous dietician
Died of a stroke, nevertheless
Is known to have the fastest fad diet on the internet.
Here, says he, is your plan:
Avoid the sign of the starch: potatoes, bread and rice
These you are forbidden to eat
Or you will want death when you’re by the water.

Unreal beach!
I had not thought gluttony had betonned so many.

You, hippopotamus manqué — tu resemble une pear!

II. A Pillow Chest.

The chair she sat in, furnished a groan,
collapsed on the marble, where her ass
smacked down, heavy with fruit pies
double the weight of seven average folks: abracadabra
resounding heaviness upon the table too
as the ripple of her flab rose to strike it.
‘Jugs, jugs!’ said those with dirty minds,
as her withered dugs of time
leapt out, leaping, no longer thus blouse-enclosed.

‘My hunger is bad tonight. Yes bad. Eat with me.
Eat with me. Why do you not eat. Eat.
What are you drinking, now? What drinking? What?
I never get offered what you’re drinking. Drinks!’

O O O O that Shake n’ bake bag
It’s so appetizing
so tantalizing.
What shall we do now? What shall I eat?
Shall I rush out as I am to the pub down the street?

If the kitchen’s not closed
we shall order nachos and beer.
I’ll have the buffalo wings
And I the cheesy garlic bread.
Good pies, though... Good pies at the diner
at the twenty-four hour diner, good pies
So, merrily we roll along, towards
Good pies, ladies, good pies.

(I wrote this a while back to amuse my friend Gabrielle, who is a T.S. Eliot scholar.)

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