The Apple

An Apple 

An old man gives himself to you and becomes an apple

Your apple

This apple is the apple of your eye

Hidden in your pocket is the apple

Until it starts to rot

To rot and mold

To produce the stench of death it does

Your apple

You take your rotten burden everywhere with you

Young children wont be alone in a room with you

Family wont look you in the eye

You carry the apple until you begin to rot

Turning black and moldy

Until you give yourself to someone else

And become an apple

Their apple

An apple of their eye

A death to their existence

Their apple.

With the luck of lust

Here it is

Me in my gold framed glasses

 And you in your unshined shoes

We are the scuff marks of this party

Seen and unspoken of

Apparently we are in love

 Apparently we are part of a cult

Our punch glasses are empty since no one offers us a drink

The music is not of our taste, god don’t you just love techno?

There’s whispers that we’ve just snorted coke in the loo and I have heroin pock marks

The blonde girl closet to us giggles that we wear our underwear inside out

But to heck with that, we dance and chatter as if it was just us

And it is

The techno isn’t too bad when we waltz and I definitely enjoyed the tango to deephouse

My!

 We must come to uninvited parties more often

With the luck of lust there’s one tomorrow.

The Beginning.

Hello there!

After being tired of scribbling poetry and being too scared to show it to anyone,

I have decided to start a little blog to jot down all the strange words that come to my head and hopefully connect with others who enjoy the works of poetry.

My grammar is not particularly the best and neither is my spelling so please try and bear with me.

Certain subjects in my works are not afflicted with anyone particular nor is there an underlying meaning in any of my work unless i have expressed it before hand.

All poems are original unless started otherwise.

I hope you enjoy the words as much as i have enjoyed the process.

happy reading!

Izzy