Photo of three young girls deciding if they should come into the ocean or not.

Blood Apple

By Oliver Damian

That apple: soaked in the warm blood of young men killed fighting for that which makes blood rush in uneven skin, plushed muscles tensed to the point of breaking.

That stiffled cry of longing to be held still as the quiet of the dark night, liquid, fluid, languid, silent surrounded by gemütlich, gezellig.

When Paris threw himself into that bloodied apple in the ring—jealous power of vixen goddesses—he started a war that soaked the land red.

But made once were goat herders to heroes we still feel in the sterile safe climate controlled enclave of luxury and safety we all call society.

It was another apple in a garden called Eden that led to the inhumane torture of a carpenter.

Nailed to a cross, naked, humiliated, a bloodied thorn infested head.

That most painful of agony not in Golgotha but in Gethsemane.

Now the madness of this torture hangs by the rooms where we forge young pristine minds.

Imprinting this cannibalistic eating of his flesh, drinking of his blood in the hope of a parody of a paradise that may never come.

Even if it does. It's already here.

As we slowly die of a thirst for meaninng inside air-conditioned stale offices.

Hell has harbour views.

Author's note: I wrote this during the Festival of Love and Lust Love and Madness Workshop facilitated by Natalia Je and Sarah Roffey on at 99 Crown Street, Sydney. See: <>.

Photo of Oliver's handwritten piece Blood Apple as published above.