Love Handles: Carried Away

By David Madison

What Love Is

They don’t know what love is
They don’t know what love is
They don’t know what love is
I know what love is
—Randy Newman, You Can Leave Your Hat On

It’s an adjective (love story);
it’s a verb (I love you truly;
it’s a noun (my love, I’m sorry,
I’ve not loved you much more duly;
you deserve it); it’s a pity;
it’s my bad, Love; it’s a blame
that’s mine alone, Love; it’s a pretty
mean requital; it’s a shame;
still, it’s emotional attachment;
one strong feeling of attraction,
strong desire to meet its match meant
(you both hope) to lead to action;
something that you cherish, treasure,
worship, hold dear, and care for
so passionately; height of pleasure
you, with all your heart, adore,
Love; something that you headlong fall in,
sucked in by its siren song,
and you’re so headstrong that you’re all in;
and then, when it goes all wrong,
it breaks your heart, it breaks the spell,
and breaks you as it breaks the bout of
what now makes your life pure hell,
a tree-like something you fall out of
—if you’re lucky; like as not
you’re fated to be more the weeper,
since, Love, hopelessly so caught,
you headlong fall in all the deeper.

Well, as usual, I got a little carried away there, I know. But Plato understood:

Every man is a poet when he is in love.

And how can one not be in love, not be a poet, when there are so many objects of love to be in love with? In fact, there are as many objects of love as there are objects in the world, even beyond—the moon, the stars (especially those falling for you), the sun, the planets, even the space between them. Don’t we all love our space—and expect people to respect it? Yet the question that confronted me, in creating this paean to love, was, With so many objects of love, and seemingly as many ways of treating of them (romantic, sincere, satiric, tongue-in-cheek, narrative, nonsense, erotic . . .) how in the world would I handle them? The answer is that I handled each according to how it moved me, meaning sometimes with honeyed words, sometimes with honey-coated thorns, so effective, I’ve found, at pricking love for the pricking. Yet however much I was carried away, I always took pains to handle each with tenderest care. If I hadn’t, could I really call it love?

And now, having totally bared myself, I stand before you, vulnerable, feeling as star Indian Bollywood actress and ravishing object of love Kareena Kapoor Khan felt in Tashan:
Rising out of the sea like a Bond girl in nothing but a green bikini, I had nightmares of how my love handles would be on display for the whole world to see.

My own Love Handles now rising up out of the See! in nothing but a cyber-thin cover (hiding nothing)—on display for the whole world to see—my trembling hope is that, like me, you will tearfully pore upon each as a heart-melting object of love, and be likewise carried away. But even if, in the final ogling,

You don’t know what love is
You don’t know what love is
You don’t know what love is
I know what love is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Madison
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463169513

David Madison

Canadian by birth, expatriate by climate, David Madison is an inveterate idyller who idylls his time away writing idylls, that is, narrative poems, especially longer ones, such as "The Witch of Sulphur Mountain: The Supernatural Life of Agnes Baron, Meher Baba’s Beloved Watchdog."And yet, as if being an inveterate idyller were not enough to recommend him to you, he is also a tireless fabulist, meaning, a fabulous writer. But if you’ve had the novel pleasure of reading his first published book, "Ms. Spinster’s Novel Grammar: More Novel Yet Her Punctation, Spelling, Style . . . ," you already know that. Each of the 330 tales illustrating a rule is written in the manner of a fable, “a short narrative making an edifying or cautionary point, often employing as characters animals that speak and act like humans.” He is a permanent resident of Belize, which, being situated below Mexico on the Caribbean Sea, is fabulous in its own right. But one look at a map will undeceive you: it is nowhere near as fabulous as he is. When he’s not being fabulous, in one sense, he spends the remainder of his waking hours answering the question What qualifies you to write a grammar book? His ready answer, marvelous for its concision, is that he has some five more years of school learning than Mark Twain, and far fewer cats. While those two seeming disqualifications are sinking in, he is quick to emphasize that he correctly said far fewer, not far less cats.

Book preview

They don’t know what love is

They don’t know what love is

They don’t know what love is

I know what love is

—Randy Newman, You Can Leave Your Hat On

It’s an adjective (love story);

it’s a verb (I love you truly;

it’s a noun (my love, I’m sorry,

I’ve not loved you much more duly;

you deserve it); it’s a pity;

it’s my bad, Love; it’s a blame

that’s mine alone, Love; it’s a pretty

mean requital; it’s a shame;

still, it’s emotional attachment;

one strong feeling of attraction,

strong desire to meet its match meant

(you both hope) to lead to action;

something that you cherish, treasure,

worship, hold dear, and care for

so passionately; height of pleasure

you, with all your heart, adore,

Love; something that you headlong fall in,

sucked in by its siren song,

and you’re so headstrong that you’re all in;

and then, when it goes all wrong,

it breaks your heart, it breaks the spell,

and breaks you as it breaks the bout of

what now makes your life pure hell,

a tree-like something you fall out of

—if you’re lucky; like as not

you’re fated to be more the weeper,

since, Love, hopelessly so caught,

you headlong fall in all the deeper.

Well, as usual, I got a little carried away there, I know. But Plato understood:

Every man is a poet when he is in love.

And how can one not be in love, not be a poet, when there are so many objects of love to be in love with? In fact, there are as many objects of love as there are objects in the world, even beyond—the moon, the stars (especially those falling for you), the sun, the planets, even the space between them. Don’t we all love our space—and expect people to respect it? Yet the question that confronted me, in creating this paean to love, was, With so many objects of love, and seemingly as many ways of treating of them (romantic, sincere, satiric, tongue-in-cheek, narrative, nonsense, erotic . . .) how in the world would I handle them? The answer is that I handled each according to how it moved me, meaning sometimes with honeyed words, sometimes with honey-coated thorns, so effective, I’ve found, at pricking love for the pricking. Yet however much I was carried away, I always took pains to handle each with tenderest care. If I hadn’t, could I really call it love?

And now, having totally bared myself, I stand before you, vulnerable, feeling as star Indian Bollywood actress and ravishing object of love Kareena Kapoor Khan felt in Tashan:

Rising out of the sea like a Bond girl in nothing but a green bikini, I had nightmares of how my love handles would be on display for the whole world to see.

My own Love Handles now rising up out of the See! in nothing but a cyber-thin cover (hiding nothing)—on display for the whole world to see—my trembling hope is that, like me, you will tearfully pore upon each as a heart-melting object of love, and be likewise carried away. But even if, in the final ogling,

You don’t know what love is

You don’t know what love is

You don’t know what love is

I know what love is.

1

A Chatterbox on Lisa Foxx

Lisa Foxx, now she’s a fox

—and one ‘L’ of a pretty fox,

and so I voice in Latin vox,

Her beauty’s quite unorthodox:

as solitaire as flights of auks

who share the air with white peacocks;

extraordinaire as mighty rocs

who wear their hair in bright dreadlocks

—all tearing over the Scottish lochs

upon the vernal equinox.

Yet, rare as are these few ad hocs,

I dare to say these poppycocks

cannot compare to Lisa Foxx

—in fact I do declare to vox,

no, au contraire I swear to vox,

they can’t compare to Lisa Foxx:

her beauty’s quite unorthodox!

Ignoring her dear mother’s squawks

who watches her like twenty hawks,

I move the ‘L’ from Lisa Foxx

to prove to you she isa Foxx.

Then in dementia so praecox,

when romance blooms and courage balks,

I suffer sweet and tingling shocks,

and dream sweet dreams of Lisa Foxx.

But truly, there’s no paradox

between a ‘fox’ and Lisa Foxx:

a fox has long and lovely locks

oh, long as lovely hollyhocks!

And yet a fox next Lisa Foxx

is but a clever, poor Xerox,

and really not of equal stocks

to lovely, lovely Lisa Foxx.

The extra ‘x’ in sly Ms. Foxx

just proves that she is twice the fox!

If gold is how you’d rate a fox,

then Lovely Lisa’s pure Fort Knox.

But Piff! I’m just a chatterbox:

love’s sentimental old jukebox

that sings one song that ever mawks:

The One, the Lovely Lisa Foxx!

And so each day when all the clocks

approach the hour by ticks and tocks,

I wend my way to her boondocks;

and shortly, after three love-knocks

(my knees, my knees you silly ox!),

I mend a sweet bouquet of phlox,

and tender it to Lisa Foxx.

I love the way sweet Lisa walks!

I love the way sweet Lisa talks!

Sometimes we walk for blocks and blocks

along the jetties and the docks,

ignoring all the bourgeois flocks

in their silly little smocks and frocks,

and I buy her bagels topped with lox,

she in her chic designer socks.

So let lesser Romeos and jocks

conspire in heat to lease a fox;

for though they hire a teasing fox

and so aspire to seize the fox,

they’ll never acquire a squeezing fox

as pleasing as sweet Lisa Foxx.

And to each troll who stands and gawks,

dazed, on his soul I’ll blaze a pox

—to think that he’d appraise her hocks,

and cast his gaze on Lisa Foxx!

Thus when the morn sweet night defrocks

I’ll stand atop Love’s grand soapbox;

then, dodging jeers and leering mocks

of ne’er-do-wells and laughingstocks

who spiel their lewd catcalling schlocks

and spin their macho come-on crocks

on spindly unromantic stalks,

I’ll shout! above the crow of cocks:

Dear world, sweet Lisa, she’s a fox

and one ‘L’ of a pretty fox,

and on the whole I’m moved to vox:

Her beauty’s quite unorthodox!

O Lord, forgive the lifelong mocks

of one you know is heterodox.

Of all your lambs in all your flocks,

I praise you well for Lisa Foxx.

And if in praising you this chalks

me up your greatest paradox,

I pray you count me, for my mawks,

your born-again Foxx chatterbox:

believing you, in all your flocks,

made none so fine as Lisa Foxx.

2

A Fork in the Road

"O Father, you have made me

no good hands, teeth, or feet,"

the serpent moaned, "to aid me.

Oh, how, Lord, shall I eat?"

So sharp and biting hunger

shall leave your tripe unstung,

I made you, serpent, younger,

your pretty, long, forked tongue.

"Lord that’s just it—you split it,

my loving tongue, in two,

so now I cannot spit it,

as one-tongue lovers do!"

I wrought it, for each love date,

a north half and a south,

so you can shmooze a lovemate

out of both sides of your mouth.

"I wish that I could shut it;

"it’s made me some hard life;

and I fear I shan’t cut it

—you’ve made for me no knife!"

Did I? Think of the creatures

I haven’t made—a glut,

for that they lacked sharp features;

yet you, snake, made the cut.

"O Lord, you’ve made me no lips

to give a loving kiss,

receive that king of pleasure trips.

You’ve made me much amiss!

Exactly. And to shmooze her

(akin to smooch), for this

I’ve made you, to enthuse her,

your all-beguiling hiss.

"Lord, what have I to aid me

to know love’s high—alas!

when you yourself, Lord, made me

so snake low in the