Pickling Anarchy

21st century

Anarchy is supple
As is rage
when skinned
by the impending.

Peeling shallow regret
from the fleshy fruit of sincerity
Indents your index

As the pulp of your own
subdues
the pale residue

And
summons into a puddle
below the watery sphere,
onto the dinner set plate.

It seeps
into the laminated tablecloth;
browned tangerine.

His polo shirts snag
onto my nails
when I put them on,
the plastic sheer buttons
wound out of the time of a bare thread.

His skin is mostly cold bone.
I could pull more from the youthful
blushing munchkin cheeks
of the lusting
pink lemonade evening
as if it were my niece.

The shrill banshee
trilling of anger
in the towered ribs
of a chest quelching
in denied distress
however,
rots the maternity
coating
the pit of the stringy uterus
of the fruit;
the mole-like seeds.

My inhibitions
reflect off of his blankness,
like the white polished
tiled floor
opposing tangerine lights
bearing down
from the ceiling
like the weighted plums
of the profanely reeking
yet voluptuously
homely.

Cartilage and compressed skin
skim curdled sentiment

Anarchy is flesh,
it sags,
it scars,
it blankets the bone
of one’s vulnerable.

Anarchy can be pinched,
gripped, boiled,
tanned and peppered enough
in that bowl of
cabbage soup.

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