I have only tried Yoga once, but it went something like this….

I have a golden Buddha
and he spoke to me
He thought it time
I broaden my spirituality
So, I vowed to go to a yoga class

Well I walked into the room
and there were twenty women
with their attitudes crass
and their notions of privilege
and pretentious class
And I knew all along
they were eyeing up
my fat ass
in all its lycra glory

I knew Buddha would’ve been
very disappointed
in these women
Who think they
have been appointed
the right to hold
their prejudice
in their judgmental minds
Where are the
spiritual tenets of
being generous, being kind?
Being human?

Flexibility is not my strong point
I can’t get my leg behind my ear
I daren’t do that for fear
I would fart
or split my pants
If they want me to do
the eight angle Astavakrasana
I haven’t got
a fucking chance
I’m more a reclining
sort of person

I don’t think my can of Pepsi
went down too well
For them it was some sort
of sugary hell
With their bottles
of Aqua Vitae
and their sorry snacks
Ecologically friendly
cardboard packs
Full of calorie hate
Poncey quinoa
Apricots and dates
And I may as well have
pulled a coronary out of
my bag when
I took out my
Mars Bar

I’ve said to Buddha
Yoga’s not for me
I will meditate
I will become a fucking tree
I was getting so bloody
at the pretension
I couldn’t cope with the
amount of negative attention
I was getting as a
‘Fat bitch’
So I left

Maybe I will try quinoa though…

©2020 Sarah Drury

Sixteen Stone Food Porn

I am that
sixteen stone woman
about whom
doctors waxed
all lyrical
BMI through the
confectionary roof
It’s definitely a miracle

taste so good
on my orgasmic lips
Fuck that Shakira
and her never lying hips
we’re talking Mr Whippy
here and
not pink fruit tea sips
And my clothes say
but my poor self image
another Mars Bar
in my gob

Apart from chocolate
heaven hell starvation
My mirror says
“put your fucking
glasses on”
My stomach
Cries “damnation”
And denies
it’s been involved in
the gastric augmentation
Of my gut

My body is a feast
of gastronomic gluttony
It’s sad when screwing food
is my primary fantasy
I get panty gusset wet
at the thought of
fresh whipped cream
And I would love to see
if chocolate cake could
screw me
like wet dreams
Laying spread eagled
A top the bed
feasting on ice cream
Vagazzle dazzle showing
Glinting blatant and obscene
Flicking V’s at
the fat shamers
the health proclaimers
calorie savers
Hit that tongue, Jack
the oven’s on
and there’s no going back
For a spoon

©2020 Sarah Drury


Bit of fun about being plus sized:


It’s me in my plus size knickers
Nothing to do with my obsession with Mars Bars, Twix, Dairy Milk or Snickers

My plus size knickers
Black satin, double gusset, masquerading as sexy, toyboy pickers
Tailored for the Chinese takeaway, fish and chips, pepperoni lickers

It’s me in my plus size bra
Looks like two sturdy zeppelins, fighting for justice in the second world war
Nothing to do with my glasses of chardonnay, bottles of prosecco, Bacardi and more

My plus size bra
Come people, my milkshakes bring all the boys to the bar
With cups like these my rebellious bosoms will never spill out, will never go far

It’s me in my plus size dress
Nothing to do with my strawberry trifle, extravagant cheesecake, chocolate roulade or Eton mess

My plus size dress
Emulating a number made for the slick and svelt and thin
Makes me look like I’m fighting in Syria to confine my flesh and squash it all in

It’s me in my plus size body
Nothing to do with the fact that I am happy and don’t care what you think
That I’m not stick thin, that I love to eat, that I love to be free, that I love to drink

My plus size body
Big and beautiful and blossoming and resplendent and worthy
And I don’t need your pity and I don’t need your criticism and I don’t need a trophy

My plus size body
For me means love
I don’t need no judgement
From below or above.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Skinny Culture

WARNING: mild swearing

I would love to be slim, but how much of this desire is influenced by the media ‘Skinny Culture’. I accept my curves but when i was trying to think of curvy icons they were few and far between. What is this obsession with being thin?

What is this skinny culture?
What is this ‘big is beautiful’ but not in my magazine?
What is this ‘big is benevolent’ but not on my TV?
What is this ‘big is brilliant’ but not plastered all over my advertising campaign?
What is this ‘big is bountiful’ but not in my blockbuster movie?

Why are the glossy pages always draped with bronzed, emaciated size 4 bikini bods
Hanging off the arms of equally tanned, gorilla like, mankini gods
Do they think us plus sized women should be kept in a dank, dark kennel like shameful dogs
Or forced into fat loss boot camps with the reality TV obesity quads
Why don’t they just lock us into rejection, objection, dejection pods
And feed us scraps of bacon and lard like a bunch of hungry, fat shamed hogs.

And why, when I think of inspirational, plus sized icons on TV
Can I only think of one or two that truly fire me up and inspire me
Jo brand, plus sized, proud and hilariously funny
Doesn’t give a toss about chocolate, pork pies, cream cakes or obesity
And good old Kathy Burke with her I don’t give a shit ideology
And Victoria Wood, queen of chubby send ups and plus sized parody
And I wish they were me
I wish they were me

I love the cinema
But if I have to sit through one more skinny heroine film at my leisure
I can’t say it’s for my joyful viewing pleasure
For the film industry know what kind of ‘perfect’ women they treasure
And it aint people like me with a blossoming size 24 body
If I were draped over Johnny Depp he would have a major coronary
Imagine me in Marilyn Monroe’s infamous white dress
Billowing up, my wobbly curves trying to impress
I’d need a marquee of white fabric and a holy priest to bless
The people who’d had an eyeful, who I’d managed to emotionally distress
With my big knickers and my no entry psychological sticker
My pulse getting quicker, needing some heavy liquor
Bravado getting slicker, my f*ck you attitude kicker

I will wear a short skirt if I f*cking want to
My legs are as viable as your skinny pins
I know we’ll never be twins. I know I would love to be svelte and stick thin
But it’s not really necessary.
Big women are yielding and sexy; big women are people with hearts like oceans
So, let’s start making a massive commotion
Let’s begin this ‘we are here, and we are real’ promotion
Let’s set in motion our love for self, the notion
That chub is the new size 4, that cream cakes are the new Weight Watchers
That we rule, we got this thing
For fat is fabulous
Big is beautiful
And odes of admiration for all you bigger women out there
We resplendently sing!

©2020 Sarah Drury

A Coffee and a Cake in Costa

I Feel as though my poetry has been getting a bit heavy, political and depressing lately and that’s not the kind of person that I am, so here’s something a bit lighter…

I’m getting rather larger
My sugar is getting as high as a pensioner on weed
Or a gang of middle aged women, experimenting with speed
If I cut myself it would be glucose that I would bleed
And I’m acting like a politician with the gluttony and greed.

It’s my weekly trip to Costa
Which usually feels like a luxury
With my two shot latte and slice of carrot cake
And side of cream, calories of excessive buggary
But with this atrocious health scare discovery
And this blood test, blood test drudgery
Eating their cakes feels like wanton adultery
Its hell, starving myself, trying for a miraculous recovery.

So a two shot latte and a plate of nothing
Fresh air does not care how you fare
But my fat butt says ‘do it, you dare’
And my tummy agrees
As it sits on my knees
Citing weight watchers fees.
But I wear baggy clothes so its baggage that nobody sees.

I don’t do it for you, or for them
Or for notions of beauty or size, though my form does capsize
In the pool, though most people are nice
I don’t do it for the Instagram filter, duck pout prize.
Imagine if filters showed the ugliness of people, now there’s a surprise.

I’m doing it for me
For my kid
For the dangers to my health of which I want rid
I don’t want a ‘mum has died of diabetes’ kid
A ‘mum who is too obese to go outside’ kid
An ‘other kids take the piss’ kid
A ‘mum laying on a mortuary slab’ kid.

I’m doing it for me
And my kid

©2020 Sarah Drury


Do not read if swearing shocks you!!


So, it’s a new year
And I’m supposed to be making a heartfelt resolution
As though being a new me is a miracle bloody solution
As though being the old me is a heinous crime
And I should be having some sort of criminal prosecution
Some sort of 2020 jury
Some sort of Godlike absolution
This loony tunes girl of no constitution
My madness – my blessing, my curse
My insanity my most endearing attribution

But why should I be less of me
In order to be more of the woman you’ll probably never see?
Why should I stop swearing?
Who the fuck does that?
And who the bleeding hell is so overbearing?
It’s only a fucking word for gods sake
So, to hell with your glaring and notions of caring
It’s vowels and consonants in the order I’m sharing
Chill, bitch!

I am a mother and I am not little miss perfect
My house is a mess and my growing lad, god bless
Turns the air blue
And then I turn it neon
And I can’t see my mouth changing its hue
And I can’t see me getting mother of the year
I am just glad I’ve kept my son alive
That his clothes are washed, no nits in his hair
I don’t want a trophy to tell me I’m almost shit
And I don’t want a throne, a gold plated chair
Just a ‘love you, mum’ will do

And I can’t see the cakes or nibbly bakes
Being particularly impressed if I leave them alone
Sitting forlorn in the aisles at Iceland
when they should be loitering here at home
I may as well start gorging on sticks and stones
Even though they may break my bones – by calling me fat cow.
And what’s wrong with my butt that looks like a semi doughnut?
What if my figure doesn’t make the cut?
What if I tell you to piss off, you judgmental twat, and kick you in the nuts?
There’s nothing I like to see more
Than some sexist hanging off the end of the boot on my foot!

And who is telling me I should be more charitable
When I am the first to feed the homeless in town
I’m the first to look up at those fallen down.
Do I need to put on some sort of fucking crown?
Do the homeless need royalty in this pissy ghost town?

I could be kinder, sweeter, quieter, neater
More conscientious, less over eater
Smarter, wiser, early riser
Don’t let my kid drink Irn Bru or Tizer (e-numbers!)
Say please and thank you
Hold open the doors
Keep the house tidy
And do all the chores.

But fuck that
I’m just going to be more of me
I’ll let go of the things that feel shit and see
I’ll get bigger and better and stronger and my patience will get longer
And people will ponder and my friends will get fonder
And I’ll probably get rounder and louder and swearier
and my lipstick will get redder and my legs will get hairier
and my mouth will get lairy
and my madness will get scary
but that’s more of me
More of me!

©2019 Sarah Drury

Holiday Time in the Land of the Curvy

Holiday Time in the Land of the Curvy

Its holiday time in the land of the curvy
It’s big girls’ vacation to Benidorm
Me and Janet and Brenda and Mabel
Are sunning it, keeping our bazookas warm.
Our lady bits hiding behind pink bikinis
Designed to hold nuclear weapons in tow
The spillage is starting to pillage a village
Four twenty stone women with tans in full throw.

We’re living the high life, an all inclusive
Including the men that we’re planning to shag
Laviciously drooling o’er pert Spanish butts
Whilst knocking back cocktails and puffing a fag,
Four twenty stone women, that’s eighty in total
Planning to shag some poor, young ten stone bloke
He’ll need to upgrade his medical insurance
And knock back ten whiskies and five lines of coke.

Its cocktails all round as we top up our tans
All smothered in lotion like pilchards in oil
Poor Janet is sizzling like sausages frying
Her tits are well done and her butt’s on the boil.
I remember a time when my boobs fit in B cups
My bum was a peach and my figure alight
Now my boobs are two missiles, my bum is a planet
And when the boys snigger, I put up a fight.

The buffet’s all free and we fill up our plates
As we pile up paella and omelette and chips
As we down several jugs of inclusive sangria
A moment on lips means a life on the hips
The hygiene is dodgy, the cleaning is splodgy
The cleaners do nothing, sod all gets done
We’ll be hogging the toilets with germ fucked tummies
And popping the pills for our poor old sore bums.

Nightime we strut like a pack of proud peacocks
Crammed into wee garments as small as a condom
Butts bursting out, boobies packing some clout
G strings so long they’re mapping tube tracks in London.
And I feel like I’ll score in my hot Chanel perfume
And the guys will fall dead at my je ne sais quoi
And perhaps if I’m lucky I’ll lure in two guys
And the three of us will have a menage-a-trois

But the holiday’s gone, at the airport we are
And we’re packing our butts into Barbie sized chairs
And the stewardess offers a packet of peanuts
And a shitty sandwich made of boiled egg and cress
The plane is so heavy its stutters and splutters
The pilot announces we’ll have to get off
So we’re left on the runway in shit Benidorm
Hungover and deep fried and had enough.
Fucking Easyjet!

© Sarah Drury 2019