Living In Obi City

 Living In Obi City

She was not born this unattractive,

nobody is, since personal beauty

exists as a quixotic and charismatic

statement, embracing a journey

of the mind in a private, yet public,

exposition of the totality of a series

of complex individual traits, not just

the measured proportions bare

of playboy flesh and bone,

exhibited with abandon,

TV accredited silken locks

or expensive catwalk couture.

Yet it seems she has tried her best

(or should that be her worst?) to minimise

any naturally conferred attributes

a seemingly sad, lost personality

trapped in a droopy double chin

extreme folds of flabby flesh testing

the tensile strength of Chinese polyester,

an unkempt, straggling mane

an unshielded, yawning chasm

this scowling mouth and stubby digits

struggling to text a breath of life

into her cellular support system.

And there’s the axiomatic rub,

for whilst I recognise the simplistic

flaws of appraisal by appearance,

yet I sit as judge, jury and even

now as her public executioner

I have already implicitly, inhumanly

sentenced her to the populist scrap heap,

despise her visual pollution

question her personal integrity

her ability to exist in a society

idolising its beautiful people;

so hard for her to be obese and me to be PC.