- Joined
- May 19, 2021
10/6: Obese
Presenting an autistic long form poem/cautionary tale, inspired by @Weeb Slinger.
In a suburban cafeteria,
a boy sits alone at a table,
surrounded by towering plates
of food where friends should be.
With a heaving sigh, the lad
begins the process necessary to
unextricate himself from his
Formica prison to collect
his seventh tray of
state-sanctioned McVegetable,
when the lightest of fingers settles
itself upon the third
of his procession of chins.
It belongs to a person his opposite,
who seems to be so ethereally
thin as to not exist at all.
"Boy," she sighs, voice heavy with
the weight of undone deeds,
"I wish to show you the sights of
those farther along the automatic
sidewalk that you travel."
He is taken away.
When the boy awakens, he
looks upon the kitchen of one
Mr. Nikocado Avocado, a man
doomed never to consume
the fruit of his namesake for lack of
C6H14O7, otherwise known as
"the good stuff."
The man is in the middle of a
"mookbong," which would
appear to some alien to be a
method of suicide most horrible.
This is not
too many footlongs
away from the truth.
For just a moment, the boy closes
his eyes to loose a shiver of disgust.
The scene changes:
the pair are now in a
Great White North
entirely blocked by
the hulking silhouette of a
"woman" waddling through a
department store to obtain a
collection of pills for the
Egyptian fat fetishist lying
in wait at home.
The dainty gorl holds
in front of her (a monumental task)
a selfie stick, with which she
weaves stories of her unlife to
a king-size mob of "fans."
Has she no shame?
For more than just a moment,
a silent scream builds within the boy.
The scene changes:
this guardian angel has
disappeared, but her lessons
swirl through the boy's head.
He walks to the basketball court,
and asks to play a game.
Presenting an autistic long form poem/cautionary tale, inspired by @Weeb Slinger.
In a suburban cafeteria,
a boy sits alone at a table,
surrounded by towering plates
of food where friends should be.
With a heaving sigh, the lad
begins the process necessary to
unextricate himself from his
Formica prison to collect
his seventh tray of
state-sanctioned McVegetable,
when the lightest of fingers settles
itself upon the third
of his procession of chins.
It belongs to a person his opposite,
who seems to be so ethereally
thin as to not exist at all.
"Boy," she sighs, voice heavy with
the weight of undone deeds,
"I wish to show you the sights of
those farther along the automatic
sidewalk that you travel."
He is taken away.
When the boy awakens, he
looks upon the kitchen of one
Mr. Nikocado Avocado, a man
doomed never to consume
the fruit of his namesake for lack of
C6H14O7, otherwise known as
"the good stuff."
The man is in the middle of a
"mookbong," which would
appear to some alien to be a
method of suicide most horrible.
This is not
too many footlongs
away from the truth.
For just a moment, the boy closes
his eyes to loose a shiver of disgust.
The scene changes:
the pair are now in a
Great White North
entirely blocked by
the hulking silhouette of a
"woman" waddling through a
department store to obtain a
collection of pills for the
Egyptian fat fetishist lying
in wait at home.
The dainty gorl holds
in front of her (a monumental task)
a selfie stick, with which she
weaves stories of her unlife to
a king-size mob of "fans."
Has she no shame?
For more than just a moment,
a silent scream builds within the boy.
The scene changes:
this guardian angel has
disappeared, but her lessons
swirl through the boy's head.
He walks to the basketball court,
and asks to play a game.
