An apple on a table, discuss:
Despair into emancipation, is the working of the mind, before gently gliding out onto a lake of plasticity. The apple is still sat on the table. Maybe it would have stopped the despair, maybe it would have kept the doctor at the door, rather than inviting himself in unannounced. It took this 800-year-old tree to grow it, but to see it on the table, everything is complete, so the apple is the object of our desire, when it was meant to be a tool for vitamins and nourishment. I would rather leave the apple on the table but needs must.
The blue lines reflect the yellow in the green. The sun shines on it to derive its status as purely English. Is it sleeping there? Tonight? It is not destructive it is not harming anyone. It collects colour but slowly softens until one day it is a puddle of fermenting apple juice, ah cider! It’s a Cox’s Apple, sweet and sour, because I have just taken a bite, as if I could tell blind-folded. It See-Saw’s between sharp, bitter and scrumptious. It is what is known as relinquishment, well it was a heavy night last night on the cider, so I just need a purer version.
There is a slight scratch to my tooth as the plaque rubs on its ruddy soft, strewn bulbus fruit. It is forbidden, but my wife will not be pregnant if she eats one today, now there is another apple on the table, as I eat mine dashing out the door for work. Apple juice all over my mouth and flying over my shirt, too crunchy in the middle, round the edges and the stalk is on the floor, oh gosh I have just swallowed a pip!
There is a famous painting of an apple on a table by Vincent Van Gogh like gathered fruit looks in the summer. Paul Cezanne’s are more vivid like it’s taste. But the despair of my day leaves me with apple indigestion and Massive Attack in my headphones rising out of Bristol’s squalor into a virtue of free sound making. I go to the bar on the train. Of course, unless you are at the supermarket all other fruit looks dire just to hold, and certainly never worth eating at a moment’s judgement, after all, you have no idea what it is going to taste like.
Blue lines enter the body, and the apple juice I just bought is consumed, yellow in Green. The apple suffices to be the best a man can get. Pink Ladies enter the train off to Ascot at Woking. They look fresh and crunchy.
This dream of apples is OK by me, my alarm goes off, and I get up for work, luckily my wife is out, not to discuss such brevity of the apple.
But guess what she has left me a nice Pink Lady on the table, shouting ‘I have just left an apple on the table!’ at me just as I came too.