The Apple – A Poem

With all its might and flurry flushes
Furied madness in its cheeks
Pumped to its full ripeness
In tight muscular delight
And squeaky smoothness riding on plump

A scream of hairlessness in a red lump
On my palm
An ego’s egg
Or a bald bosom (Of course it’s bald)
It feels nice… the apple
In its own waxy ozone
Smartly neatened out
Unlike chalkboard smooth
But smooth like the dragged out note of a harmonica tune
And a nipple of twig
Perfectly erect and dry

An evil thwack like sexy heels
On chunks of legs
Against wet concrete on a quiet sleepy night
Bounces of empty
And clucks on your fingertips
Straining out, almost to burst
A muffled punch on frozen meat
Bland but bright and fat
That’s the apple ring
A slap, a flap
A muted snap
But that’s not all
The chorus gets louder
Your teethy whites come down
And the clash of dampened cymbals
And the scratching of a breaking bough so crisp
It cleans your attention into oblivion

In rainbows and fires of good and bad
Where sleep lost angels dwell and gather
Shrouding sweetness onto perfection
And reaching deep to its seeds
From which all genesis of appleness grow
An armour, a malic condom
Budding on pink buds on your tongue
Sometimes squinty-eyed
Sometimes wide-eyed salivation
Bountiful and rich
A barrel of scurvy fighters
And a deluge of lust pouring in
A practise pad of sorts
To use your tongue on the most saccharine flesh
Bound by purity
Bound by the tempest
A bait so sweet it opened our eyes
The moment of shame when wisdom came
Listening to the slither
Of a hiding laughter
And it’s sunshine brightness
A wafer of heart thumping poetry
That stands in the shape of a zesty state

Grand with spits of mirth worth smiles
Crazy days that keep you alive
With leaps in heightened excitement
Meadows of freshness under your skin
Almost the substance of daintiness in sleep
A sleepy-eyed lover, bowing over
To bury his nose in the nape of his stranger’s neck
The fragrance, a secret blowing fast
Ploughing in with careful fingers scraping
To grasp a deep breath of its yellow musk
To forget the bitter taste of yesterday
For a moment
And it loses its smell
Deep within, saved
Leaving only the beginning of a rotting start
Racing itself to a brown death
And while you smile
To the blooming smell of apple loins
Mindful with squandering thoughts
Of earthly simplicity
The ethereal winds gather height
With languor strapped to their skirted backs
Spread upon the lands
Seeding smells, seeding smiles
Under the same old sun
Nodding its ancient head
Everything in the skin of the earth
Will then beam in its greatness
And lay down till the next sunrise