Kitchen King

I love my daily kitchen chores:
They show me how much fun it is
To peel some hours off the day
And find it’s rotten anyway.

The only way I make it through,
Without a walk down Sylvia Plath,
Is taking things in iron grasp
And channeling my inner tsar.

I rail against uprising milk,
Volcanoing in mushroom shrouds,
With threats to drown the flame beneath
In angry, spizzing, rebel shouts.

I, then, suppress the boiling force
The moment whistleblowers stand
And gather steam to cry against
The pressures of the Gulagland.

I drown the ones who make me cry,
And slice their layered loyalties.
I flay the ones with many eyes,
And mash them into nobodies.

I pinch the salt into their wounds,
And brown their pain in pools of ghee,
And with some twists of finger fate
I spice their boring misery.

I put them all into their place
And sanitize the crime scene.
So, when the Mother Goddess comes,
She smiles to find her temple clean.

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