Tantalus

After so much wanting and having,
he wanted not to want, not to have.
But couldn't stop. Something dire
might happen if he stopped!
So he ate on — wishing Harpies
would swoop down, as with Phineus,
polluting his food, or making off
with it all: the roast pork/fowl/veal,
the boiled beef, the venison—
he liked a cooked breakfast.
His conscience, which lived in
his ulcer, twisted and tightened
as he chewed, pleading a diet of,
say, fruit and water, would do
both of them such good.
"One day,' he told himself,
"I'll get my comeuppance,
I'll have no choice but to stop—
it will serve me right.' Deep down,
he wondered, "What do I really want?'
Trapped in this maze,
there was no way of knowing—
his body a map of expanding
boundaries, his heart pounding,
"Quick quick, now now, yes yes!'
"Stare at this pinpoint of light,'
said the hypnotist. "You're not
hungry, you've had enough.'
"Oh, but I am, I haven't!'
The hypnotist sighed.
"Gaze at this spiral. Imagine
being up to your neck in water
you can't drink, beneath boughs
laden with peaches you can't eat.'
"This is unbearable, STOP!'
Tantalus rushed down the street
towards a five-course meal at
his favourite restaurant.
That made him feel
so much better/worse …
Prescience was a boulder dangling
above his head. Before tranced eyes,
visions of that unreachable fruit,
untouchable water, would not
go away.
Tied to a pendulum,
he moved slowly towards them.