latte

Money makes other ideas real

I’ll give you a
Queen you’ve seen
A million times before
Printed on expensive paper
And you give me a portion of
The universe, great or small,
Latte or yacht, depending
On how many more queens you
Think I have got.

On Parkway in the Furniture Cafe, London N7

Table 1:

Another one

An Imacandroid

Or should I

Say Imacandroidess

Coz she’s, no mistake,

A woman –girl

And not a man-boy

Imacandroid.

There she sits

Straining her

Tea in this

Loose-leaf cafe

Halfway up

Parkway.

Why here and

Not at home

Where tea is

Free and Music

Low? We can

Only surmise, she

May not be typical –

Imacstereotyped.

If she was we

Could be cruel

And scorn her

Macananical cool.

We could tut and

Sip our lattes,

Chatting idly – why

God made cafes,

Not for her

To sit and

Pout, peering

Regally at we,

Mob, in the dark,

Beyond her mac,

With its Apple-

Shaped lamp.

But no, let’s be kind,

Perhaps she has

Come to escape her

Flat, bored of

Its walls and

Pissed off at

The cat.

Table Two:

Sitting round a table

On deliberately mismatched

Chairs, three mismatched

Friends meet ‘For coffee

On Saturday’ afternoon.

3 have tea,

Two have cake

Milk all round, No sugar.

She, the one

Without the cake,

Talking through

Eye-lined holes as

Listeners absorb

Projectile sounds

Through hair-

Greased ears and

Dull sponge eyes

Bulging with

Her Narcicisstic

Spew.

One chips in to brook

The flow, vain attempt

TO check the vain

As she, the ME one,

Carries on, convinced

She’s prettier, better,

Cleaner and more

Fun, in the most

Interesting of

Possible ways.

Looking round, glancing

Up at the mirror over head,

Down  at her cool grey

Thighs, legging-wrapped,

Looking through Briggita

To the wall behind her,

Next to which  a

Lone man sits

Absorbed in Sunday TImes

And ipod but

Nonetheless aware of

A caress from

Eyes too used to

Looking out, not seeing in.