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Monday, November 11, 2013

The Elephant Man

Chunks of puke blasted the inside of the little white airplane bags that once laid flat and steady under the red spread out chairs facing the stage.  Puke after puke... the bags filled with disgust as the rounded back lifter drew a scream of pain into the tunnel of bright lights that looked down upon him... showing the texture of his red skin and his squinted eyes.  Lay at rest young lad... for your dreams must suffer into the pain you hurdle, the scream of embarrassment shuns your pride as weakness floods the building that spins around you.  Kids cry, as parents cover their small tearful eyes.  Help! One man screamed from the back, while pushing over the table he once sat at handing out fliers for his small business.  He ran fast to the stage to try to save such an ugly piece of shit animal.  The lifter so torn and helpless... so wrong in every way.  A crime that must be stopped, that gets the worst of punishment... publicly hung for all to see.  Publicly stained by fruit being thrown, splashing upon his face like green slime on the bottom of the little white airplane bag.  Laughter collapses the room like the boiling chuckle of a witch's rant. Outcast this animal!... Outcast this puke of a human!  A rounded back monster has entered the sport they scream, under the seat they hide while eyes of blood leak from the lifter's struggle... a struggle only an animal could understand.  Knees hit like a car crash as sirens yelp.  90 degrees and half way up, legs fold like the jacket of a retired golfer.  Hung up and dry, only seeing the light if someone asks.  The golfer says, "Yes, of course!" as he rushes upstairs to show off his achievement to someone who actually gives a fuck.  A give a fuck is all this old man needs to better his day... even month that just maybe might leak into a year.  It all matters how many times he gets to show his green jacket off.  How many people care to ask, for interest lacks as he overflows with constant excitement.  Caring is a universal drug that will never be topped.  One this world needs more of, as I sit and write this I ponder how much more care I can put out to others, outside of my world and into others.

Carry this bar man! A coach yells from the left corner of the hunch back's shoulder.  The freak that peaks open one eye to see where he is at in the lift... for feeling of his art is now replaced with guilt on what others might say... in this example we must conquer defeat in standing with overcome.  Rising to the challenge while others whisper hate, for beauty lies within the beholder of the weight... on the bar and within.  Smile with blood young lad.  Let your yellow teeth dagger the ones who rage at your craft.  Let your knees buckle and your back round to prove to yourself the non-approval of others doesn't affect you. The one thing that is required from you...  a made lift, to make your life what you have pictured in your day dreams as night sets in, making your dreams clear. So clear that sound is removed from your ears while your thoughts pinch your skin. Reality is there... even though others don't see as clear. 

The forums start to type words of hate, as the judges cringe in horror.  "This weightlifter on stage has the worst technique," they whisper from back to front, as the athlete's elbows drop from the heavy clean taking him to his toes.  Heels off the platform as his hips rotate to the side like a plane spinning to its death.  His spine bent like the people in the audience hurled over as more green puke comes spooling out from their dirty mouths.  He No one knew. The place was in shock, as the computer monitors that looked like the chalk board in the Harvard hallways froze.  Lights lowered and dimmed as the middle light grew heat like the sun... casting a spotlight on the athlete who dared to stand with such ugly form, that even Betty left the room and took on the elephant man as a date. A pen fell... literally a pen, not a metaphor.  When the pin dropped a small drip of sweat dropped from the lifter's forehead.  Splash!  The drop was long and the decent was even longer.  The pen rolled like the weight on the outside of his bar.  Spinning fast like his mind. Collars were tight, as his collar bone was in pain.  The resting of the bar gave his chest time to breathe, as his throat felt suffocated from the cold bar piercing his skin.  Lips open like a gold fish as air entered like Thanksgiving dinner... and left just as fast once full.  Knees locked like a door at night, while kids asleep a gun should be in close sight.  Protect your house young man... protect your dignity and make this fucken lift!....This his father said in his mind.  His father knew nothing of weightlifting, but he did know about winning... and more about losing.  A man that knows more about losing than winning is the man you want in your corner.  For mistakes he has made will never be forgotten in the arms of others.  Let his cuts be your sail, as his blood flickers into the wind, guiding your dreams like a knife through skin.  Blunt.  In your face, and times advice you don't want to hear makes you stronger... especially in a jerk to the moon. 

His long legs shaky while his eyes wide open.  A ghost might as well passed the lifter on stage, as he motionlessly stands with a look of haze, for what they don't see is the concentration of rage.  The thought of dropping this weight on the faces who puke, killing all who doubt him, killing all who bared to look.  A dip with his hips as the bar bent with his motion.  A fast motion that kept the middle of the bar straight, while the ends like eagle wings, dipping low only to fly.  The oscillation of the bar turned metal into feathers.  The lifter's face turned long and yellow, as a beak grew and eyes of black stained his face.  The flap from the wings of the bird created a rustle of wind that pushed violently into the audience of puke.  A hurricane of sort, turning vomit into rain, as thousands flocked out from the competition room.  The computer monitors sparked, as the judges dodged the gusty winds as lights fell from the celling.  Chaos was created for those who watched, not the one who lifted. 

The eagle was born before those who saw disgust, from a person who just wanted to stand.  THEN THE BIRD DROPPED LOW, ONLY TO FLY SO HIGH!  I used all caps to assure all the readers who watched from the side, that he made this jerk... so we can all give the middle finger to the made up audience watching from the front.  Letting lightening and thunder blast through the fucken roof! This ain't a depressing blog, this is the truth! This is not bodybuilding, we decide a win or lose.  No such thing as a bad make, only a solid bright gold medal up for the take.  The lifter made the lift while the judges pushed white, as papers and blinds flew from all sides. For the people left in the room still watching, taking cover was the only option. Three whites he made the lift.  The room at this point was empty from the wind it carried.  Only a few people saw his testimony to the bar, as the weight stayed steady and high, breathless but alive.  He then let out a roar for all to hear, a roar that translated to this................

Give me my fucken gold. 

A beautiful made lift 2016

1 comment:

  1. Sounds like a story about Dallas. Keep that back rounded and fuck the haters. That shit is workin out nicely.