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Richard Scott
Condylomata Acuminata
Bored of pushing shit
one day
he grew fruit.
Soft knots of skin,
sacks arranged
in hidden bunches –
a sparse crop
but defiantly there.
He squats to
find them, pointing
them out – bright as Christmas
wax, unexpected as river gold.
Wet seeds petered up
his insides
lodging between cavity
and windpipe.
Once there –
watered
in the acidic eddies of stomach,
sunned in venery
they bore.
And out of a surprised
O
rolled a warm red apple,
promising
as any fairytale,
onto the dinner table.
Everyone glanced at its tiny intrusion
before continuing to carve.