The Blue Book of Passion

I read the book,half completed and then lay it resting on an avon,
I come back to the kitchen to fetch chips and sauce,
see the rustle of a cracker erupting itself over the burner,
tuned fire to light blue in colour and read the story half imperfect,
I toss my love over the burner and see the flame of passion,
I must confirm the new tunes I am making when loving half empty self,
again the burner is for back burning while I tease the chicken to a knot,
what is the food but simmering of half whet taste,
I now read the blue book of freezing love and squander the rhythm,
over music violating the air with tight air benders,
She was not a cook nor was she for a taste,
there is sudden surge in my understanding and I dodge few words,
the blue book erupts into a volcano and all the love is mine,
reassured I sit on a sofa of corpulence and deny myself a chance,
I must have been in love to be alone once again and silent.


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