The Rotten Apple.
With a fist of stone I slam
Slam this phone upon this table and
the pieces shatter, scattering into the distant
corners to shudder and hide and
shelter, helter skelter
"GET OUT!" Beckoning, begging.
But relentless, "GET OUT!" Get out now.
Somewhere, there are pits and puddles
Boiling over with the gaseous sulphery stench
Rotten eggs, so they say
Or a rotten apple, laid out softly on a park bench
Nestled between hard wood and newspaper
Or in a door way, there is a surreptitious crack
Heat flows in a river, but the river
is insignificant in size, too small
"GET OUT!" The bell rings like a memory.
Preseves jarred like a sound, jerked like meat in the package
Like a fart in the wind, or pissing in a crowded bank.
And in a haphazard package, made of soft fibers and harsh words
My rotten little apple gets squishier, smellier
Lying under that newspaper on the cold park bench.
Slam this phone upon this table and
the pieces shatter, scattering into the distant
corners to shudder and hide and
shelter, helter skelter
"GET OUT!" Beckoning, begging.
But relentless, "GET OUT!" Get out now.
Somewhere, there are pits and puddles
Boiling over with the gaseous sulphery stench
Rotten eggs, so they say
Or a rotten apple, laid out softly on a park bench
Nestled between hard wood and newspaper
Or in a door way, there is a surreptitious crack
Heat flows in a river, but the river
is insignificant in size, too small
"GET OUT!" The bell rings like a memory.
Preseves jarred like a sound, jerked like meat in the package
Like a fart in the wind, or pissing in a crowded bank.
And in a haphazard package, made of soft fibers and harsh words
My rotten little apple gets squishier, smellier
Lying under that newspaper on the cold park bench.
posted by Stobux | 3:37 PM
1 Comments:
Also inevitably, a poet always writes about their father. I can't really explain this one, after I finished and reread it I was like ....whoa what the hell happened there. I don't really know who's perspective this is from, I would say maybe his? Anyway, I was experimenting a little with style, I don't know why I always go back to food... I was trying to place heavy emphasis more on the objects I associated my dad with at the time, and personofying those objects. Needless to say, that's not at all how this turned out. This poem is ok, I like it enough to keep it here at any rate.
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