He’s the kind of fat man
Who speaks with his weight,
He dribbles when angry
And eats after violence.
He has the smell of autumn
Cloaking winter,
And at his best he has words
That could dig in your chest
And turn like a blade.
He has a forehead
Well mapped,
Teeth like chipped limestone,
And late at night
Polluted by a bad childhood
He grapples women like victims
And growls like a bear.
He is living in bliss,
Time has no need to heal here,
Hear the ignorance roar,
The fat man has spoken,
The room is still wobbling.
Dunstan Carter : Poetry 