SHORT ON FOOD

SHORT ON FOOD

Food has become its own snare, as I attempt

To flavour the boredom. After each morning’s

Poem, breakfast becomes ritual. I bathe,

Then stumble out for a walk, but the need

For care keeps me weighted, as I try to rescale

The day’s measure without the size of my gut

To compare. Many will emerge bigger out

Than they are within after Lockdown,

Whose initial key needs refitting, no doubt

Along with the door, as the numerous

Exaggerations occur; variants on our own

Former image. Not that mine slimmed

And strengthened, for as far as attraction’s

Concerned, I’m unscored. Stockier still,

Heavier, the heat we’ve had’s kept me

Stranded, as Covid’s violent strain swam

Before us, with all of the roar and rage

Of the sea, which we cannot fully enjoy,

Or properly use to fuel fitness; and thus,

The food I have haunts me. Where it bored

Before, fear runs free. One need only watch

Today’s clip, and then poem-film thirty. You see

The effects. Its alarming as I struggle through

Skin to return

To some ancient idea

Of myself, as the modern age scars,

Then mars me. As the sun bakes I am ready

To be plump on the plate, all pride burned.

Sadly, I still love the crisp and crunch of what’s

Fried – though I do not of course mean

The Ortolan - and while cold fare at night

Provides balance, the heft of the day pushes me,

As I wrestle now with my shape, which stays

Separate to my conscience. I do not know how

To solve it. As most men of my age go to seed.

An inconvenient image, for sure, as it implies

Earth and even burial somewhere,

Which can naturally still press the flower

To rise renewed through the soil,

And therefore, achieve a new life, primed

By the desire to exercise and to diet;

But at a time when the only expense, apart

From bills, is food buying, that special

Need for reshaping has been slowly chipped

Away, mashed and boiled. I am still short

On food without being short of it, and so

I fight its hold daily, not in terms of control,

Or the ill. For I have known lovely girls

Who succumbed to all forms of eating

Disorder; but this trap is different, as I still

Ensure flesh is filled. My appetite’s satisfied,

I just try to make it wait for its pleasure.

Some days, I’m successful and it’s practically

Twelve when I look. When I went out in

The past, I’d not eat for an entire day

And not notice, but stuck inside, a food

Packet garners more deliberate reads than

A book. I’ve always needed the mind fed

To prove whatever worth I have as a person.

Deprived of that, it’s the stomach, and the

Sensuality of the mouth I indulge.

While I can’t kiss, I sip, lick and chew

And press my tongue against sagely,

Squandering past sensations on the soothing

Charms of hot coffee, or a sandwich’s tidy

Bulge. These are the events of my day;

Poems made, fried potatoes. The whole

Of one’s world in an apple, or a golden

Kiev, creamy and crisp from the heat.

Each bite spurs me on, and sends me spun,

Further backwards, as I chase advancing age

And descension with a kind of punishment

As I eat. There are so many who can’t

And the weight of that is still grating,

Not in terms of annoyance but of the appliance

That is used to shred cheese. The discrepancies

In the world slice at both skin and perception,

As I write my own end through this sentence,

Imprisoned as I am

As girth gains me

And cholesterol claims me,

I know while I’m waiting, that I may

Not, in time, see my feet.

The danger is we’ll be freed

And simply fall at our doorsteps.

For fear is fat also.

It fills. You fail.

Food deceives.

David Erdos May 21st 2020

For more poems from David Erdos visit The Corona Diaries collection 

David Erdos is an actor, writer, director with over 300 professional credits. He is a published poet, playwright, essayist and illustrator. He has lectured on all disciplines in theatre and film for leading performing arts colleges, schools and universities around the world. His books include EASY VERSES FOR DIFFICULT TIMES, THE SCAR ON THE CLOUD, OIL ON SILVER, NEWS FROM MARS, CHANGING PLACES WITH LIGHT (penniless press) and BYZANTIUM with the photographer Max Reeves. He is a contributing editor for The International Times and maker of documentaries all over the world. David’s work has been acclaimed by many leading figures including Harold Pinter, Heathcote Williams, Alan Moore, Andrew Kotting, Chris Petit and Iain Sinclair in whose recent book THE LAST LONDON, David features. He can be reached at David.erdos@sky.com.

David Erdos

©    David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.