God to Adam

So why the sudden lust for apples,

their sudden overpresence in your mind?

Perhaps it is your pride that grapples

with busting fruit, as if you were confined

to dumps of dust within the garden,

as if you mustered long for scraps, a rind,

a pit, and felt the hunger harden.

Don’t prattle pap for godly pardon.

Don’t prate about your holy hard on.

Confess your human faults and I’ll forgive

and give you clumps of clod and let you live

in hell. Sure, blame the girl and bluster

that she ensnared you in a fluster

of sin and stain and skin, while knowing
she’d blush and shake and blame the fucking snake

and never name the urge you couldn’t slake.

You fake! What appetite was growing

that bade you prance about in fig-leaved shame?

Speak, coward! Thirst for knowledge as you claim

or ache for ripened flesh? I’ll tell you what,

go find that girl and brand her primal slut

and temptress whore. Then see what lies begot:

the worm, the cut, the wound, the cankered clot.

See that? Just watch it, watch that apple rot.

Note to poem:
The words I wrote were "godly pardon."
Don't read the rhyme as "Dolly Parton."
I know it's feminine, you privileged prick.
But I'll wield a spear like any Spartan
and stick its tip into your sexist shtick.