cooking writing sex

i find myself
obsessed with
finding the
perfect balance
making poetry
just with food

the chemistry
pulling the perfect
flavors forth
umami weaving
the disparate
scents and tastes
to dance over
the tongue with
the grace of a
half drunk ballerina

in another life
i would have
run away to paris
to study among
the masters
instead of a life
spent doing drugs
and reading them

when i cannot
find the right words
i lose myself
in the kitchen
yet another one
of my fruitless
ventures into
making sense of
the senselessness

maybe tonight
i will find sleep
dream of creating
anything worthy of
the test of time
cooking in a bar
in the middle of nowhere
with a tree growing
from the center of
the dining room
or penning my
finest of odes
down your spine
with lazy fingers
your soft moans
cried into the pillow
the symphony accompanying
my one act of perfection

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