I’ve never written a poem about sex before. It’s a first.  It might be a last.


If that orgasm were human

it would be the fat woman

in the sitting room,

flesh molded to the sofa:

springs shot, feathers flattened,

a spittle of foam poking through the cloth

under her pale thigh

blue-veined like knotted string

thick and


A stuffed cake-cushion.

Some orgasms are just thin

and only eat lettuce.



Filed under poems, poetry, writing

14 responses to “Fat

  1. I love it! Well composed.

  2. haha! Well for a family that normally eats mostly fish and veg, you have inspired me too cook some rump steaks tonight…I think we are all a tad skinny…
    By the way, did you read the books when you were little about the happy fatipuffs and miserable thinnifers?

  3. André Maurois, underground world with brothers plump Edmund and thin Terry…
    Alas, no bearnaise but plenty chevril on a tomato salad, garlic mash, onions, mushrooms, purple sprouting broc & chard…and way too much red from the Sud de France. Nice. One has to keep body and soul together as the kids Highers start tomorrow.
    Thanks for an epic poem, I’m off to Fattyborough now.

  4. Jacqui

    I showed it to my other half and made him guess who wrote it. When I told him, he blushed. He’ll never be able to look you in the eye again! Our other writer friend-in-common wrote some explicit scenes in a novel. I did query the source but she told me it was all fiction! xx

  5. Jacqui

    Mount Fuji- isn’t that a steaming erupting volcano? More imagery…

  6. Give me that silken layer, any day
    Love it.

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