OLD CAFE

Reflections on life over coffee in a cafe.

OLD CAFE

 

a rest, from swinging bar

and animals in the abattoir-

to smoke in mental thinks

spoken holding cooling drinks.

counting out old coppers to be fed

in the set squares of blue and red

plastic table cloth-

just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.

Jesus is late

after saying he was coming

back to share the wealth and real estate

of capitalist cunning.

maybe. just maybe.

put another song on the jukebox baby:

no more heroes anymore.

what are we fighting for-

he’s hiding in hymns and chants,

in those Monty Python underpants,

from this coalition of new McCarthy’s

and it’s institutions of Moriarty’s.

some shepherds sheep will do this dance

in hypothermic trance,

for one pound an hour

like a shamed flower-

watched by sinister sentinels,

while scratched tubular bells,

summon all to sunday service

where invisible myths exist-

to a shamed flower

with supernatural power

come the hour.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. From his 4th book WOODED WINDOWS. All Rights Reserved.

Reviews

[Gee]

Please tell me this doesn't come easily.....

[Strider Marcus Jones]

Hi Gee. No poem comes easily. Thought, imagination, patience, experimentation and craft/technique helps.