Yes, that is exactly what I am
An apple that has commenced to rot
A sniveling, white faced strangled tot

That grows and swells to a fat, putrid globe
A stunted fruit that drips with puissant pus
Drying to a crisp, freckles on its seedy face
Skin hanging in dripping flaps, Oxford maroon

Painted, plastered are its degradable eyes
Two pits at the center that swivel and cry
And the stem that will soon snap and go awry
A neck, a female reel that tugs with every sigh

Flushed, vinegar sin, quick and flaming gin
Invisible spine, one browning lump of sour
With a squeamish, devilish, delectable power

The womanly curves, the round purrs that perfect
Venusian shape, a wide trickling gated river

The vice that suspends in taut congested air
Spins as a top, finagling on a pendulum tear
The calling peels from the grit and the grain
And rain, the slippery wet that amputates again
The mellifluous lips that guzzles and drains

Saccharine from ample hips, the blossomed bodice
Of that once portly, blushed ovum of rouge;
Now dead, it sits alone in hay colored nest
A damp harlot sluicing the gardener’s dirty knives

Sliced and diced and eaten, crisp halves licked
A cinnamon simmer, alcoholic similes glimmer
Quick and tart; the infuriated flower buckles
A frothing, culpable art, squelched and befuddled

Lying there, there on the steaming plate, alone
Rotted to the core, sugar fermented, body sore
Quenched and drenched bittersweet
The white of my pure flesh sunburnt dark
Quivering to a placated pharmaceutical shark



(note: this poem is not quite finished yet)