I mentioned the other day on Twitter that I recalled a really old poem where I wished I was fatter. A million years later I reread it with the eyes of an overweight man and wished I could slap my old self in his stupid slim face. The poem in question:
I wish I were fatter,
then I’d have an excuse.
Leaning back in the mirror
she made me pull down the front of my pants
to expose a small bit of pubic hair
like models in adverts for jeans or anorexia.
Small yellowing packets
chemical reaction creased.
I’m hot tired.
Do you know what that is?
Almost drowsy, but almost awake—
that post awakening, in-your-room-for-too-long feeling?
Where you need either a cup of coffee or
a glass of sherry, no ice.
Old, Younger, Alexx, you sir are a boob of the highest caliber. Also, I wouldn’t have used “bit” in the 3rd stanza. Well, I mean, “I” wouldn’t… but you, meaning old “I” did. This is like Back to the Future.