The poet is an architect
he constructs sentences.

The poet is a cook
he mixes words.

The poet is a philosopher
he reflects on what he writes.

The poet is a student
he learns words.

But above all.

The poet has no definition
he defines himself.

She won’t eat sandwiches made with
Smoked cheese or a white sandwich maker
And you’ll see she’ll struggle with
Demons chaining her stomach, binding her
Yet through all the hops the takes
She’s always loved my fruit pancakes
Love is in things such as these
That no one else quite notices.

Things such as realising how
I am freeing her somehow
Without ever having known
The demons that were kept unshown.

I’ll cook her more,
Feels natural.

_M

Too tired to give
an egg a clean break,
he crunched
into his omelette,
ready for bed

What do I love most about life? Perhaps the ability to cook explains all.

So, after our pretty laid-back meetings filled with lame jokes and modest talk about dreams, I offered myself to cook.

"I hate it", he said the moment I told him how much I love to cook shrimp.

It was ironic to discover that each of us loves what others dislike, and vice versa — or maybe, I am the only one feeling that way.

But then, he inexplicably enjoyed the meal. So voraciously. That I thought he did that for the sake of impressing.

Days roll into weeks, weeks into months, and I was still serving the same thing he could barely enjoy. And he eventually got low-key to that.

I was thinking whether he did that for the sake of adapting. It reminded me a bit of how acceptance is much glorified these days. And I was so grateful.

I even wanted to serve my heart for him.

I would gladly do that.

You need to cook

to think about what tastes good
and shop with tastebuds, textures and time in mind,
challenge your palate
with things you might not like
but just maybe through salt, fat,
sweet and vinegar
you’ll begin a journey with no end

Start with basics:
pick a thing that as a kid you loved
and muck about with it
add stuff, take stuff
reflect on heat
(too high is the trap we all fall in,
or too low, through fear)

Most of all cook, as a ritual
make victuals that force a grin
that draw friends, families and lovers in
and with greasy fingers and chins,
grand sustenance and common guilt,
we’ll smile and rise

The corners singed
Smoke rising
It was on too long
So not surprising
Next time I won't read:
The email, the text, or the
Instagram message.
Tomorrow I'll forget
I'll flick the switch
And my mind will drift
Like a balloon sailing out to sea
And once again burnt toast
Will be waiting for me

What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for you.
Dinner is cooked; our drinks are chilling, and I’ve taken a hot bath. I want to be comfortable so I can
enjoy your company.
Your kiss is tasty, did you just pop a mint?
That’s okay love, it’s all good to me.
Go ahead, make yourself at home, wash your
hands, I’ll fix our plates.
Yep, you have a steak and potatoes,
and I have fish and veggies.
But King my Dear, you’re my main dish.
Can I fix you a drink? Do you need some ice?
So how was dinner, did you get enough?
Thanks for the compliment, I’m glad you liked it.
Sure, I’ll pour you another drink, and top it off with ruby red. Do I want to hear some music?
You know I do. Put on what you think I like?
Kem is fine my **** King, and pump up the volume
cause I am ready!