Stuffed

My stomach can't take my tongue's desires
As I groan and pray I die
A heart that burns like a thousand fires
fueled by the 7th slice of pie

There are just days when I can't say no,
in fact I can't say much at all,
for once more into the breech I go
to answer the belly's siren call

I envy the butterless, fatless freaks
who crave only a carrot's crunch
who don't fill a tray till it bends and creaks,
before they've even started lunch

I dream of gravy, spluttering fountains
and trees of steak and cheese
where the muffins rise as high as mountains
and you can wander as you please

So fill the fridge with calories
and leave us there to dance
we'll taste the sweetest melodies
in our culinary romance

I'll swell like Violet Beauregarde
and roll from meal to meal
I'll grease my doorways thick with lard
and squeeze through like an eel

Until one day I'll hit the floor
and flounder on my back
Please come to see your friend once more
and bring some kind of snack

To some; as gods

There was a trembling among the bushes and a pink nose nudged forward.

"Come out, little one"

The eyes were added to the protruding part.

"No need to be afraid"

The youth stayed stuck in place, knees quivering under the steady gaze of the adult.

"Why are you hiding, youngster?"

" I thought I saw a god" replies the little squeak.

"Maybe you did, gods have been know to walk here. But why the fear, my young friend?"

"I am scared that I will be taken for sacrifice and I am not worthy of it"

"The very fact you say this is proof enough to me that you are more than worthy. A humble soul is all anyone asks."

"But I have sinned."

"Sin is inevitable. Repentance is where you must make a choice. Come."

So he emerged from his hiding place and whispered a prayer of hope to the skies.

Seconds later, a rushing shape burst forth and wrapped them both in thick, rough ropes. They writhed and moaned. As they were lifted up, the pain dug tightly into their flesh.

"It is the touch of god" screamed the elder. Strange skin prodded at their bodies and they thrashed in religious fevor.

They were carried off and arrived at a holy place on the back of a giant, noisy beast. The gods freed them from their rope cage and dragged the elder away.

"Take me, take me" called the little one, desperately.

"Your time will come. Prepare your body and your soul. Praise the gods in all that you do."

He kept these parting words with him over the coming months. He bowed to the gods every wish: eating all that was put in front of him and laying where he was guided each night. He lived a holy life, not completely free from fault but he had learned to accept this and embrace the penance of the gods' angry hands.

He took the wife the gods choose for him, praising their names as he mounted her, biting hard on her neck. He loved her. She was delivered by the hands of the holy; how could he not?

He never saw his children but he could sense them and he cried proud tears that they could be born in such a temple; an Eden of mud and straw.

The day they took him, he knew his blessed time had come. He rode the metal beast and his veins raced with fear and joy.

He dashed through the gaping doors of the concrete cathedral, its looming form honoring the towering height of its makers. He entered into the fierce white light. They blessed his body with each slap and he finally stood before the high priest.

"Quiet, my trembling heart. I have repented and I am ready to join the gods beyond. Anoint me, cold blade."

He spluttered rich liquid and squealed  "Hosanna" as he felt himself lifted to heaven, by the hind legs.

A 2 body problem

"Love" she says, using her dry tongue to flick the word from her mouth, "is a two body problem."
She takes a stubby point of chalk from her sagging pocket and drops to her knees.

"The pull of each body directs the other. The greater body leads but both have equal importance in the solution"
She scrawls an equation across the scraped, fading black paint of the stage floor. The wood below shows through in scratches; from dragged chair legs, the steel tips of tap dancers, the pressured pin at the base of a cello.

Each journey of chalk reverberates through the theatre and, as she shuffles along, her supporting palm and the loose ankles of her trousers scuff the numbers a little, like a sloppy left-hander. She reaches the side of the stage and then climbs down. She sits, front centre.

"Now solve it"
The dancers stare down at the floor.
"What about music?"
"It is the music, you fucking idiots"

He takes his partner by the waist and she shakes out her legs.
"Ready?"
"Yeah...wait. Who's x and who's Y?"
"It doesn't matter"
"But she.."
"It's insoluble"
"God. Typical. Think they'll sort things out?"
He shrugs and straightens out.