Monday, January 18, 2016


He called me “fat,” and I cringed, not
at the insult, as such (not much a one)
but at the verbal dull, the paucity of
adjective, the pervading mental lull, the
flap of his limp and flaccid gums, the lack of
hearty fun. Fat? Why fat, I cried? Surely,
round would move things up a pitch or two,
and gargantuan would do, and corpulent
construe the adipose goo at hand. Why fat, oh,
fatuous man? Call me beefy, blimp, or bulging;
term me bovine, bull, or burly; name me chunky,
roly-poly ,or inflated as your nog. O, linguini,
limp and little! Your linguistic torpor bores, ignores
the 25,000 words that Joyce and Shakespeare
forged, and do not hoard (but your words,
overall, are snores). As I eat my s’mores,
let's resume: I am thickset, paunchy, heavy
as the synapses in you; I am wider than a
canyon and the broad primordial stew. Fat?
Fat, you fraud? I am Queen of unburnt calorie,
the rarest elephantine; the Mobyest of
sentient beasts, the diet doctor’s bawd.
My stockiness drives diet stock, my pudge
the script of pills; I am larger than Niagara
and the Roman seven hills. Dormant doormat,
there are spas of verdant bliss for me, but no
school for fools like you. You are but a speck of
rotten lard, a granule of mere sand; I am high and
vast and infinite, dimensionally great and grand.
Post a Comment

Blog Archive