I coated roasted bread periphery with surplus extracts of cow butter,
stuffed hollow spaces between twin slices with squashed tomato curry,
baked round crystalline egg to fluffy proportion,
crushed a pair of sour lemon to form appetizing juice,
flooded polished interiors of glass with blood red wine,
sliced infinite biscuits of farm fresh radish,
blended chunks of mustard seed in huge jars of ground well water,
dropped sizzling pieces of goat meat in gigantic foils of silver,
ripped open olive green coconut shell with slender butcher knife,
peeled wild skin of fleshy orange after feeble resistance from the fruit,
decorated the slimy surface of exquisite marble,
with bulky slabs of chilly ice-cream,
sprinkled pinches of pure salt on visible patches of spiceless food,
laid a cluster of hybrid grapes in minuscule baskets of cane,
filled miniature soup bowls with clear paste of noodle and garlic powder,
chopped with deft strokes of skill entangled bundles of cauliflower root,
burnt sugar to chocolate brown in low rising flames of electronic stove,
rubbed green chili sticks with volatile force on my lifeless lips,
opened sliding glass panels of the green house roof,
to let in revitalizing draughts of the mountain air,
reclined and sank in the plush upholstery of king sized chair,
to relish the concoctions and recipe which were simply for morning consumption,
listening to enlightening tunes diffusing softly, from plastic pellets of my portable walkman.
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