I would call this blog the golden apple, but...

since another has that name Tide Eyed Eris will have to do. I feel it is one of the more creative lines in the poem titled "Golden Apple." This poem has an interesting history. I wrote it in high school and sent it, and another poem, to our school literary magazine. The editor of the magazine liked it and decided to give me "the editor's choice award." However, for the first time in the history of said literary magazine the new principal of the school decided that he would like to "take a look at all the entries." I was soon asked by the editor if I would remove two words from my poem so that the pricipal would allow it to be published (just so you know, the magazine was published entirely from donated funds and those collected by its sale, and the school paid nothing for it). I said no. Thus the editor published only my other poem, and wrote a wonderful piece in the beginning of the magazine saying in no uncertain terms that the magazine had been censored. I was not alone in being censored. Several other artists were asked to remove words or passages or face not being published. Many chose not to change their pieces. In fact, there were so many pieces censored that the magazine was a little on the thin side. Courageously, the editor of the magazine decided to self publish her own magazine and hand it out along side the school one. This magazine included all the censored pieces, as well as a few more pieces that students had not previously sent in (probably because they were already doing some self-censoring). This magazine was called the Golden Apple. Here is the poem of that name.

The Golden Apple

My cabal moves faster toward
the tide eye’d Eris
we drink vodka and sapphire moons
and jump into the wild nexus

We are war taut youth, that ache
and mix in wry awe of the new acrid phase,
if before us came stardust
then we are as raw starving wolves

Our jest hides gaiety, but
we hunger for the fullfillment
of grotesque quintessence
inside the brilliant burning matrix

We crave, the saxophone of sublime piety,
kings half drunk on Zen,
fairies, and the hallucination myth
the grandmother of funeral pyres

We feel, that busy voyeur desire,
video envy, the oath of the web
nothing, as we say, the Magi
can’t liquidate or exploit

Wooed by the influx of weighed gold
our civil wizards, reverends of ecstasy,
provide unwashed episodes
to sadistic gimmick junkies

We are alive in the ether,
we think to outwit our age
and ascend the hulking tower of Babel
to reawaken the whore