Apples

After Apple Fucking*

My long two-pointed penis sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't massage
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't fuck upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-fucking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my penis.
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My penis not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-fucking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the do-not-fuck heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

*All right. Basically, I took the poem "After Apple Picking" by Robert Frost, and deleted a few sections and replaced several words with "penis" and "fuck." Super.