Yoga

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
irate
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
that

calories
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
NO!!
but my poor self image
slips
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

Fat Club

Fat club

My tummy was hanging like a butcher’s apron
My arse was saggy like an old bin bag
My tits were touching my belly button
And my chin was wobbling like an old, sad hag.

So I decided to go to Fat Club.

I walked through the door to be greeted by
Ladies of stature and ample size
Wobbling all over the meeting room
They looked at me without a hint of surprise.

I was home.

Home with the ladies all big and bold
The sisterhood of the more plus sized knickers
And bras like hammocks with boulders in
With the chocolate munchers and cream cake pickers.
Dreaming of tiramisu and crème brulee
Fantasies of a cream trifle orgy
Swimming around in a sea of toffee
Indulging in passions, pseudo-sexual glory!

Weigh in time!

One by one the victims were called to the scales
Like prisoners waiting their turn to be hanged
The suspense, so intense, no pretence was allowed
Would I have gained a pound? Would I end up harangued?
And the ladies they waited, they twitched in their chairs
As they looked shit scared with their faces like death
And they learned of their fate, if they’d put on weight
Or lost a few stone from smoking that meth.
And it was my turn now, so I stepped on the scales
And I shit myself as the verdict was revealed
And the woman she looked with a face like a fart
As she waggled her finger, my fate was sealed.

Rabbit food!

And I sit here and munch on my lettuce and cucumber
Cherry tomatoes don’t taste like a cake
And the low fat yoghurt tastes like puke
And the slimming world meals are a real piss take
Its only week one and I’m starving to death
As my son stuffs a pizza and gloats like a dick
And my stomach is grumbling, resilience is failing
If I eat much more salad, I’m going to be sick.

So, to fat club I’m giving the middle finger
I’ll continue to fill up my plus size bra
And my stomach can flourish in its lycra knickers
And my tits can wobble near and far
For I don’t need to be like a string of piss
I am fat, I am proud, and I’m a fucking star!

© Sarah Drury 2019