Look at them with their flu
their flu their flu and their influenza
no amount of cheery conversation
no amount of thick black Bogotan
ground down richness in ceramic civility
no amount of mahogany haven
is going to breathe density into the disquiet
I am a leper
I am a sick feeble rancid leper
but I know the value their illness
I know the value of straight teeth
rich porn good coffee and adequate public services I know
the value of worth itself
n all I do is leper myself along the streets
people come and go bring n buy
never look the waitress in the eye
even though her arse is like a sack of grit
in those new age studded jeans
nobody looks her in the eye
she talks to no-one
n no-one talks to her
and she looks almost ashamed
almost offended to her very soul
that I should make eye contact with her
n there they are
eyes of depth and mystery
what is she so ashamed of?
ashamed to be so far away from home
on a hangover Sunday morn
in a slow smokey cavity of man
there aint no need to be here
no need for any of us to be here
not the pushchair queens
selling man stories over whining smoke signals
not the bald pasty mail man
not me and not her
but everybody gotta be somewhere
and this universe is as welcoming as any
mahogany arms wide
the long haze of coffee beans hanging
out like a tripwire across the road
men hanging slack from third story alley
windows like Chinatown laundry
baying at the soft ghost that rises
through the city like a steam
what happened last night?
why did I wake up in the hallway?
n I don't need to be there
she don't need me there
but I look up from my notes
up the long tired coal coloured pigtails
up the limestone throat
that has a feint veiny roadmap across it
up along the pale hewed monotony
in her deep set eyes
past lips so red
lips that exhausted eternity's laughter last night
who needs to be young? We all do!
but who needs to be here?
who needs the Beasty Boys at Mass?
At least it drowns out the creak
of the long parched whine of the rusty wheel
on the pushchair rocking a baby away
as if Paginini were a lullaby peddler
but we sit there and dance to it
and the waitress glides along spuriously
between the concoctions of pews
and their occupants baggage
the whole sad blindness is like a match
that relites itself every time you're outa breath
I notice that birds don't fly too low
around here and that dogs bark only once
cats never laze around in the sun
but huddle in corners blinking nervously at clouds
and I'm sure that all those times I was never
ever coming back I was either right or tired
this time I don't even mention to the tall thin waitress who seems to only be working there so that the fat owner has some glaze-eyed breast rack to lazily gawp at during the lunchtime rush that she has just put my coffee directly on to the article I was reading
I'm more interested in the coal dust orphans
with pressed noses at the fresh clean windows
not dreaming of Rollerblades or naked snatch
or complete and utter world domination
but of the iced bun that the fat baby
is trying to fit in his ear and up his nose
while his young blond serious looking mother
sermonises her fat ugly hippie friend
on her version of a world domination manifesto
the waitress with the pigtails and the lost
Manet look could be so much prettier
there aint no place on which to place my finger
and barely a finger to use if there were such a place
but I'm sure her old floral non-serious looking mother
has every right to hate her friends
I'm sure her doctor blames the wonders
of the drug culture and the mindless
single-mindedness of the youth of today
as they hack their way along the crusade
trying to indulge in as much vulgarity and hedonism
as the youth of yesterday did
and her boss blames her looks
and her pot blames her kettle
her priest blames Satan
and Satan don't give a fuck
but she don't blame anyone cuz there aint nothing wrong
it's just hard to look jolly and wild
hard to pretend that contentment is the colour of her wallpaper
it's hard to smile when it's raining all the fucking time
but there's always something bubbling under the sad surface
when you're dealing with that breed
that has a million words in a bag
and nothing at all to say
perhaps I should pay more attention when I shave
well, my coffee's bad and the service is bad
and the atmosphere chews nuts
but I go every Sunday just to see
(for miracles only happen on designated days)
just to see if she is going to sprout
magnificent golden wings and emanate a celestial soprate
or perhaps smile when I leave a tip
also, I heard one of the customers
a bedraggled old man with asparagus in his beard
telling some transparent comrade
that Jesus pops in every now and again
and I'm hoping that if I catch him on a good day
on a non-hangover day
on a haven't been mugged in God's great garden day
that he might have a look at my leprosy
for the price of a coffee
or maybe not
they asked that old asparagus man to leave
after he began eating handfuls of sugar
or rather they asked the waitress to do it
nobody could refuse her anything
nobody could refuse Gandhi his coffin
who could snatch that last sandwich from Mamma Cass?
something ethereal childlike something so real
about the frame of her head
as if it beamed bitter but inconsequential honesty
down upon a football field of open-mouthed Incas
she consoles an old crying lady dabbing
at her thin tears with a cut-glass handkerchief
thumb stuck out like a grey dappled road sign
trying to bum a ride to eternity
but this is where is where Manet meets Picasso
and this is where mahogany turns to ash
a long drawn out trumpet
turns into a distant saxophone
that sounds like moonlight on a Hollywood beach
rage turns to the concrete sadness of art
and beauty turns into something very odd
something more than a means to an end
something where the end actually means something
and now my coffee even tastes like mahogany
it is no revelation and no game I play
when I say that one day I will stop coming here
and the rain will have one less thing to fall on
the waitress will have one less day to brighten
eternity will have one less blind man to entertain
posterity one less soul to condemn
and in truth I believe in all the fuss.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...