coffeepoem

As his coffee does suggest,
this man is more than a little bitter.
Sits in a sullen trench coat of leather alerting
passersby to the black pools of his heart.

Oaken table and oaken chair,
a murmuring candle that couldn't care less.
She only seats herself as this spill of rowdies
may soil her dress at the public house.

Their conversation starts aloof,
covert gestures regarding the fools surrounding.
They both put their elbows on the table and write out
essays about the dwarfs in the other booth.

Slow Opening

You have to carefully pleat the origami,
every finger you employ could be corduroy
approaching velvet, then bitch slap for saying
velvet. Satin, silk just milk

it, these are a lyrics to the song
whose plurals ... I mean, whose plurals?
Luxuriously singular, cos only one f-u finger
Goin' back to bank tonight to sleep in the best

cusses and slurs. (x2)

Okay we don't gotta be so mean.
I mean we mean we gotta get okay,
after that there will be a small hole
for whatever my mouth wants to say (it wants),

whatever my mouth wants to say (x2)