Sunday, May 31, 2009

Satan Spandex Speedo

My most recent foray back into Slam style poetry. Let me know what you think!!! I attempted to upload an mp3 of this, but it wouldn't work. If anyone knows how to do this, let me know in the comments section.

Love and Lyte,

Fire Lyte

Satan Spandex Speedo

I heard a rumor when I was a kid
that I first took to be a joke.
In time, and with a bit of experience,
I came to believe that this rumor – like
the one about Earth having a round belly –
might actually be true.
This truth, if true, is both basic
and baffling, but comforting in its simplicity.

Spandex, especially Speedo spandex, never,
come hell, high water,
or Hooter’s-buffalo-wing-induced gut,
never loses its shape.
Its squeeze if you will.
A truth, simple enough, and one that has been proven
time and again…sadly.

On a band trip, yes I said band
as in marching
as in a plume on my head
countermarch, countermarch, KICK
band trip to some Splashy McWaterpark
it was proven both by the man who’d never left the gym
and the man who’d never gone.
The latter’s banana hammock – well…
Twinkie hammock to be more factual –
clinging so tightly it seemed a sign from God that
miracles still happen,
for the seams held better than any of Jericho’s walls.

Time and again, the wonders of the spandex Speedo
never ceased to amaze (and horrify) until…

Sunday. The gym.

The man in the lap pool.
The man in the lane inches away from mine.
The man whose hair that seemed to have
become so frightened of his head,
it had taken refuge on every other square inch
of his Rubenesque body.

The man who, like metal enduring summer and winter,
had apparently expanded and contracted
swelled up and deflated
so many times that his spandex Speedo had, too,
finally deflated.
Like the flaccid remains of a popped,
yet previously over-inflated balloon
the front of his too-tight shorts hung low and disconnected
knowing they had finally lost the Battle
of the Bulge.

This sight would have been funnier
had every other stroke of my arms through the water
not forced a mouthful of hairy, Speedo-killer essence straight
to the back of my throat.
As such, it made me realize that the wonders of this incredible material
could never have been a miracle,
for no god would have ever deigned to create
such a vile, evil thing.

No, this was the Devil’s work.

In desperation, I quietly made a crucifix over the water,
hoping the now-holy pool would
bless the fright away, but to no avail.
This was beyond the realm of that which
holy blessing can cure.
No demon could be cast out of the sagging
black and green beast.

I ran to the shower, instead, hoping soap
would scrub the evil off.
I think it worked.
I hope it worked.

Just in case, though, I’ll be attaching
garlic, a wooden stake, a silver cross,
and a picture of Joan Rivers to my swimsuit.
Surely one of those things will keep the evil at bay.
If not, well, I’m sure I can go without exercise.
I hear fat is the new thin.

Or, at least, that’s what the John Goodman exercise book I just bought says.

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