Young Writers Society

A large mess.
An apple skinned and left to sink,
rotting into the table, some transmutation
of wood to worm, fruitless.

The core is gone
with some formeldahyde and
a microscope slide, still life.
Cast in clay or iron fixings. They bronzed
some moment of light corrosion
on the thing’s now discarded skin.
They draped it like a porcelain fuse
on a molotov barbie's bedside aid.

We walked outside the next morning,
after breaking open the scabbed shades
to reveal our Midas mottled leftovers,
and the streets were all soaked in lime.
It stung, and stunk. Sweet

Jesus
the world is red. Conducting our speech
like symphony we clattered over steps
till we found the tree that had gifted us our
bronze embalmed effigy.
Then, chewing on the applevine we lost
ourselves in Dionysian fever. Our muscle
tissue fell like paint cluttered canvas
to the floor, and we sunk, with the apple
into the wood casting we’d ate over
just the night before.