Fag Ends - Poem by Simon Jackson
Even amongst the hums and whirrs and hisses
coming from behind the counter
Its so easy
In the pretentious mist of this artsy café
To pick up
And draw on
The stained remains of conversation;
Some so Avant Garde
Andy Warhol would vomit.
Drenched in pomposity
Peppered with multi-syllabic phrase,
And thoughtful hums between beard strokes.
These are the philosophers and future prime ministers to be.
Full of words and the dedication of a dying fish,
with a stench and jounce to match.
The girl in the stripy top wants to be heard
Flicking her mane rhythmically as she giggles
Obnoxiously at her friends bad jokes.
Donned with that oh so vintage-esque scarf (its warm inside)
And a rock-n-roll T-shirt.
Both pierced with todays hottest jewelery; They are different
Like every other alternative wanna be wandering the street.
Nobody told them its in what you do that counts.
I would love to pick up fag ends here
But I am shy and enjoy being an orange chameleon
Set against the pine tables and chairs
Worn by an unquenchable caffeine and image addiction.
The artists, musicians and hippies should gather here,
Just to off set the skinny jeans
And influential teens engulfed by an overrated image.
At least the coffee is good,
And the waitress is cute with a genial smile.
The art and décor, inspired.
I'll probably keep coming back.
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