The Trouble With Board Meetings

At 12:54 on a Thursday afternoon, just before lunch, Mr. George Hardcastle rose from the head of the board meeting table. He looked around at the board before slowly and calmly walking to the window. The board watched him in silence; Mr. Hardcastle was an eccentric and hard to predict chairman, one of the reasons for his success in business. Upon reaching the window Mr. Hardcastle rhythmically drummed his fingers on the sill for a moment, before opening the catch and sliding open the window. A cold wind slipped into the office, ruffling the hair of some of the board members and rustling the papers on the mahogany table. The men hoped this display wouldn’t go on for too long; Mr. Hardcastle was renowned for his long inspirational speeches and they were all quite hungry.

Mr. Hardcastle turned to look at the room, “well, let’s see” he said, before coolly stepping onto the sill, taking a further step and plummeting 57 stories to his death.

There was a heartbeat of silence in the boardroom. Then chaos erupted. Half of the board ran to the window to witness the splattery demise of their former chairman, while the others ran the other way, away from the window, to the back of the room.

When presented with a vision of death, only half of the board were able to accept it, the others fled from the image like sheep from a wolf.

Look in the mirror; perhaps you'll see

Soft. Milk
Smoothed Silk.
Swallowed down
Forgotten taste,
Waiting in haste.
All I need: Toxic waste.
The stream of brown,
Comes pouring down.
A bitter smile
For the burning bile.
Scratched and aching:
Sweet relief: my only belief.

Arched and curling,
Thrusting and moaning.
Two fingers caress,
Cold and undressed.
The shimmering mirror
Soon to be clouded.
Excrement enshrouded:
Lily White with Corset tight.

Globules and driblets hanging
I need to share.
There’s nobody there
Attending this fair
Holding back my hair.

Binging and purging
Forever turning and hurling
Throwing out afer forcing it in;
Tiled skin, pressured in.
The blood, the shame:
Obesity’s claim on an
Emaciated frame.

Binge. Purge.
Binge. Purge.
Binge. Purge!
She couldn't breathe.
But no one heard.

Acid throat and rotting teeth
Grated ribs and infants feet.
Soon she couldn't take the pain,
Slowly crumbling
Her bliss.
Her pain.

Compulsively she fed this line
She couldn't breathe but now it's time
To start the dance, a dance of death
She couldn't breath, no breathe left.

I stand and I fall
Before you all
Raised on a point; so tall
All on my own
With hollowed out bones.
People look; longing stares
There's no one who cares.
Looking: A needy state;
I'm trapped in a prison of hate.
Losing weight; lost fate.


It’s all in the waste; I love the taste.
Seeking the ache; longing for pain.
Absolution in my name.
Purging my shame. It’s all a game.
I’m left here divided from all.
United with no one, alone I fall.
Kneeling and turning
Burning and hurling
The tiles, the bowl:
Friendly, welcoming.
Home.

Everyone dreams the dream,
But I am it.
There’s loss and sadness
Chasing the dream; seeing
The seam, the lining, pink
And red in the burning brown.
The chunk and the brine
All that's mine.
My body’s lost; lost in the flood,

Overwhelmed, underfed.
Malnourished. Underfoot.
Lily White with corset tight.