Creative Writing
From your mouth to your belly, to your anus, a happy tummy
Food is not just for the sake of existence, it is beyond these compact cliches it is politics, identity and a way into someone’s heart
The dark clouds have started to emerge, let me see food, the smell is good, puts me in a good mood, the temperament is jolly, makes my pot belly filled with jewels, all gold will be burnt and the golden potion will lay me underneath it, covering my eyes with golden contrast, for there are some who does gluttony on camera while the others find it hard to manage their lunch right now when you are reading this.
Many suffer from bones brittle, mouths little, lips dry, tongues bland, tastes bitter, palms dried and hardened, all that you thought was ghastly and grotesque, is on the mouths of few, sorrows hanging by a thread passing in the stomach, acid fuming the tentacles hot and the potion is seizing blood to flow, everything has been plummeting in the interiors suffering a stylized seizure, dying and being a delusion.
Food is so much more than a means to survive, it is what appears to be a captivating display of wants and greed and an element of a rundown mockery to the have-nots. They have not even a grain of rice in their bellies, yet there are some who can just eat and eat and get their bank balance to occur and concur, phenomena like ‘Mukbang’ more like ‘bang the beggar’ put humanity to shame, the stylized alacrity to live in your own world without internalizing that fellow human’s blood and sweat went into the making of grains that are processed removing and striping off all the necessary nutrients, adding industrial salts into it, loading a ton of sugar to get the beings addicted, little and little entering the personal sphere of one’s eating habits.
It is important to know farmers are dying, farming is dying, they are suicidal, depressed, poor and are losing hope as their farmlands are grabbed little and little pressurizing them into the dark vortex of debt trap.
The dark dungeons, the shape-shifting affairs of the world, and the algorithm manufacturers are getting to your food, non-locality is a myth. The world is upside down, topsy-turvy, cranial, toggling the whimsies of a few technocratic marauders, sleek and sleazy occupiers, the likes of Cambridge Analytica controlling your elections, the SOC. MED. of brother Zucka Buga! got the triumph sign while Uncle Gates is putting lands under the scanner, entrenching bio piracy and imposing food colonialism. Let the staples rule, local crops suffer the hard hit blow. Occupy the lands, fill the land with pirated poison, food security is a creation of non nutritious obese ridden foods. We destroyed the lands in the Antarctic now venturing into Pacific.
“The myth of “free choice” begins with “free market” and “free trade”. When five transnational corporations control the seed market, it is not a free market, it is a cartel.” ― Vandana Shiva
Humanity is dying, a shifting gaze, people are looking, I am under the scanner, keep the banner. Fat shaming my body that boys are lusting over, all things curvy from the waist down, in sorrows brown, all things are not in ifs and buts, your breasts catch attention, so do your buttocks. And then taunted and scarred to see your thigh gap, too much BBW porn, thick as sleek mama bear, fuck her like a sex slave forever, and yet scar her for the deepening wounds. An object of teen sexual hormonal tension, for all lover are jilted, seeking object not a living being with intellect.
Eat more, eat less, lust is never an object that can be tamed. All about, “Boys don’t have control is a myth.” That’s a patriarchal world equivalent of “Hey there slave, satisfy me!”
I am inside my prism, the man in me dies little and little, where to cry? Where do I seek help? Where to run? Where to wear out my skin and let my bare bones walk in shame. Food is my elixir. In this rundown world where every gaze is a judgement. Everything starts with a stare, ends in sorrows bare left to fester, the wounds are scarring and rotten, all that has happened, only food can replenish those wounds.
What do you choose staying alive to eat, or dying and not eating? The world is filled with the rage of the personality. It's when trauma hits, all your identity starts and ends with satisfying your need to feel even a tad bit of pleasure in this humongous burden occupying your head, almost difficult to lift.
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