to the God of Twiglet.
He has his fingers down my throat,
the staple denial in my stomach,
re-emerging like a last chocolate biscuit.
The steel board of muscle
a requirement I don't understand,
but understand I must acquire.
And satin-skinned, slim, bliss,
worn as a lampshade
wrapped around a live flame:
my moth life.
Bikini body waits in my closet
rattling its skeleton.
Smile the lip-enhanced trout pout
and lipo-suction your gut
until conformity encases you.
Was there ever any doubt the outcome?
I have fought a brave fight, made a stand,
now I worship at the idol of
the Twiglet God, who demands
flesh be displayed in the contour
of bone and muscle;
soft curlicues in shell colours
flare his nostrils
and are relegated to funeral garb.
His manifestation is minimalist,
for mouths to regulate;
stomachs to compress themselves
in walnut shells.
The priesthood maintain his flock
from doctor's chairs, laboratories,
and editor's offices. The discourses
of science and medicine
Temptations constantly test the faithful:
fried food served beneath golden arches,
sweet tastes wearing bright foils
and fancy boxes, sugar sodas
and soft dough breads.
All sins must be repented
with push ups, sit ups, squats and long runs;
sweat beads worn like a thorny crown.
Thou shalt bake, but not eat.
Thou shalt serve food, but not sit to dine.
Thou shalt not covet thy master's crust.
Thou shalt not query the right of a penis-driven society
to dictate the size and shape of the Goddess.
Thou shalt not despise those (sheep)
who grant them their power.
Thou shalt cease to labour upstream.
Turn and flow in the restful current,
for even Oprah has succumbed to its sirens.
Successful deprivation is rewarded
with longed for adulation from priests and flock.
I will sew my mouth closed and allow neither protest
nor sustenance to pass my lips.
I will be uplifted to the Goddess conformation.