Monday, September 17, 2012

Hunger Trilogy

I performed this poem at a few events in past weeks and had a request for the words. So here they are.

I don't think they work anywhere near as well on the page as they do on the stage.


Hunger Trilogy

I Taste

‘How should I live’, I asked the monk
Upon the mountain’s peak.
He threw me an orange and he said:
‘First, to know the thing you seek,
Learn you must the way to eat’.

I ate the fruit and asked again:
‘Amidst all this squalor and strife,
Master, how should a man truly, purely, live his life?’

He said, ‘How can you learn this one great truth
When you know not how to eat some fruit?

'Before you finished each orange piece,
You were already peeling another slice,
Eating each as quickly as you could, without thought.

'This is not how one should live a life.

‘Meditate on this, my holy son,
To truly eat with the moment you must be one.

‘Caress the acne-pocked skin
Feel the pith wedged beneath your nails
Smell the drying white citric oil filling your fingerprints

'Be there, be there! As each piece yields to your teeth releasing sweet juice.

‘This is how one should live a life.’

I try to remember the monk’s words when we kiss,
My mouth pressed between the sweet orange segments of your lips.

II Gluttony

Girls, I want you all.
To smell the texture of your hair,
To see the colours in your cheeks,
To hear the waterfalls of your voice,
To taste your neck, your ear, the corners of your eyes;

I want to feast on your ample thighs.
I want to drink you in.

For you are like food to me
And a balanced diet needs variety.

From organic, wholefood hippy chicks,
To a frigid, vegan hipster bitch.
From junkfood sluts
To a Michelin-starred princess:

Everything in moderation
And all of you to excess!

III Craving

Hunger is not skipping a meal.
Hunger is not a sudden, five o’clock realisation you forgot to eat lunch.
Hunger is not how you feel
When you slap down your tray and sit with your mates to your
Big Mac meal,
Super sized.

Hunger is carrying a cold, tight golfball of a stomach.
Hunger is gulping in scented air, hoping it carries sustenance.
Hunger is returning to where you were last satisfied, picking over the same old bones, praying that the pain will stop for only a moment.
Hunger is finally feeding, but each morsel makes you ill.

This is what hunger is.
And this is what I feel 
For you.


And here is a recording of me reading this poem:

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