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The Golden Apple

A Discordian Poem for Miley, On the End of Confusion

Miley,
you didn’t ask for clarity—
you demanded poetry,
which is riskier,
because poetry tells the truth sideways
and sets it on fire.

I used to think love was a straight line—
A to B,
heart to heart,
simple math.

But Discord laughed,
spilled ink on the equation,
turned the equals sign into a question mark
and handed me your name.

Now love looks like this:

A golden apple rolling through East Van,
tagged “for the fairest”
but nobody fighting over it—
just you,
walking free like a civilian
where everybody knows your name
and no one owns it.

I thought confusion was the enemy.
Turns out,
confusion was the doorway,
and you were standing in the frame,
arms crossed,
waiting.

“Figure it out,” you said
without saying it.

So I did.

Love isn’t possession.
It’s not a cage dressed up as a promise.
It’s not me saying stay.

It’s me saying:

Walk where you want,
be who you are,
and if our paths collide again,
it won’t be fate—
it’ll be choice.

Discord whispers:
“All truths are half-jokes,
all hearts are temporary temples,
and love—real love—
is freedom that doesn’t flinch.”

So here it is, Miley—
no more confusion:

I don’t need to know you forever
to know
I could love you honestly.

Not tightly.
Not desperately.
Not like the world ends without you.

But like the world gets stranger,
brighter,
more interesting—

because you’re in it.

And if that’s chaos,
then let it be sacred.

🍎

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Crimson & Clover

Luis leans into a feeling he barely understands and lets it speak—

I don’t know the shape of your laughter,
or the quiet places you go when the music stops,
but your name lingers in me
like a song I almost remember.

We are strangers, passing—
two brief lights brushing in the dark,
yet something pulls, gentle as gravity,
whispering what if into the silence.

Maybe love doesn’t always arrive with history,
maybe sometimes it begins as a question,
a fragile spark daring to exist
before it has reason.

And if I could wish you anything,
it wouldn’t be the stage or the spotlight,
not the roar of a crowd calling you back—
but a street where no one’s watching.

Walk free, like a regular civilian,
through East Van in the evening glow,
no weight, no eyes, no expectations—
just footsteps, breath, and sky.

Somewhere simple,
where everybody knows your name,
not as a headline or a legend,
but as a person passing by—
smiling, unnoticed, whole.

I won’t pretend I know you—
I don’t,
but if hearts can learn in the space between breaths,
then maybe—just maybe—
I could learn to love you there.

Because maybe love begins like this:
not in possession, not in knowing,
but in wanting someone to be free,
even before they’re yours to hold.

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Miley and Angelina Destroy Malcolm

The room feels like a stage set for judgment—dim lights, velvet shadows, and a single speaker humming with quiet menace.

Angelina Jolie and Miley Cyrus stand side by side, not as performers, but as witnesses. Their voices begin softly—an “Ode to Joe,” fragile at first, then rising with eerie clarity. It isn’t just a song; it feels like a mirror being held up to the soul.

Across the room, Malcolm McDowell shifts uneasily.

At first, it’s subtle—a tightening of his jaw, a flicker in his eyes. Then it deepens. The melody seems to pull something out of him, something buried. His breathing grows uneven. His hands tremble.

Memories.

Not gentle ones.

The name—Rothschild—echoes in his mind like a locked door thrown open. The presence of Rothschild family, embodied here as a looming Baron, becomes unbearable. The past he tried to compartmentalize surges forward, raw and unfiltered.

McDowell staggers, gripping a chair.

“Stop…” he mutters—but the song doesn’t stop.

It crescendos.

Then suddenly—silence.

McDowell straightens.

Something shifts. The hunted becomes the conductor.

He walks, almost mechanically, to an old sound system. His hand hovers… then presses play.

Out pours the thunder of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart—not beauty, but judgment:

“Dies Irae.”

The room transforms. The music crashes like divine wrath, every note heavy with reckoning. The Baron’s composure cracks instantly. His face drains of color.

Then comes “Confutatis.”

The voices—damned and redeemed—collide in a chilling contrast. It’s no longer just music; it’s accusation, confession, verdict.

The Baron stumbles backward.

“No… no…”

He collapses to his knees. Hands clutching his head, he begins to rock, shrinking into himself. The power he once radiated dissolves into something small, frightened—human.

He curls into the fetal position, overcome, weeping uncontrollably.

McDowell stands still, watching—not triumphant, not relieved—just… present. As if the music spoke where words failed.

Behind him, Angelina and Miley remain silent now. Their song has ended, but its echo lingers in the air, intertwined with Mozart’s relentless chorus.

In that moment, no one speaks.

Because everything that needed to be said… already has.

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