At a Coffee Shop

trickle-top blue paste ink
sunk slow into human
willing flesh asking for signs
to last forever
sudden strangers walking
talking buying cookies
for their daughter - only the
younger one though
leather work
running through the skin
giving me words
to use and exploit as i tell
the world about the exotic west
and we celebrate under
a purple sky our open arms
the taking of the east and
absorbing bit by bit the
easy loving of another
tick-tock the clock walked
along and you and i spoke so
soft the ink of his face
might run off
and away
what then would we do
tourists asking for a glimpse of the world we would never know what it meant to belong somewhere and realise what it meant to be home and comfortable in the sweat and happiness of the rich comfort and the crispness of the soddy notes we handle every fucking day

So what, then,
are we working
for? The leather-
worked faces don't
need another place
to die for. The faces of
untarnished
youthful rebels
reeks of thoughts
from another generation.
But, at least, they can
talk to demons of their
own.