FATTER by David Erdos - Poem 6 from AT THE GATES

FATTER

 

 

Of course, I could always become truly fat, in order

To protect myself from what happens: a slow burden

Of skin would secure me to the negative earth

Like fused coil. For to be fat is to douse the urgency

 

Of lost limits and to shine through stretched shelter

As the fires within fold and toil. In a sea stung by salt

I could feel myself fall to the bottom, sinking not

As a stone might, but more as a solo avalanche.

 

Perhaps, only then I’d be free of the structure

And strain that defines me, along with the need

To chase beauty. Assisted by water, I would slide

Through the silt as hope slants. And yet, fat is

 

Beautiful, too, as can be seen in large women.

But in men, what’s vivacious is harder to discern

Through the girth, as their bodies balloon

And breath is returned to the blower. Only Orson

 

Welles remained handsome, while his baby

Elephant bloom slowed his worth. So, I could in fact,

Hide myself, hoping that the thickness of flesh stalled

The needle: in seeking its way through the sinew,

 

Clogged arteries barricade the particular poison

Now preached, condemned and defended, in a desperate

Attempt to forestall it, my weight, a fat flower would break

Through the weeds man has made – from Mother Nature’s

 

First fruit, which I would forsake for fried sausage.

Or, for cheese, cake and pastry, chocolate, coffee, beer.

Can one grow fat on eggs? Or on a constant potato

Arrangement? What must I do to find cover

 

From the sharpness and pain of last year? And this

Year, too. I could make my body a bed and hide deep

Inside it. Friends have died. Now, it’s snowing. As my phone

And internet repair become void. I am already cut

 

From the world and can’t seem to find a woman

To want me. What does one do once attraction,

Or even the chance to attract unemployed?

Retire oneself? And yet the unattacked heart is never

 

Truly redundant. And so it keeps beating, as food’s

Weaponry achieves aim. I could be fatter yet and let

That sacrifice become noble. As the slug of self over-ripens

The compulsion to taste steaks its claim. It would be one way

 

To go as I sit and wait for direction. Perhaps someone slim

Could allow me another method to ease self-made blame? 

Naturally, I mean no offence to the fat. Or to the short.

You’re my shorelines. But out here in the dark and deep water

 

The ship of self, if not sinking is gaining worry and weight

Through mood’s oceans. And the raft racked, yet rising

 

Is slowly bobbing out

 

                                Once again.

 

 

David Erdos February 8th 2021

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.