Café In The Edge of The Evening
By Petra Whiteley
The window of the café is smeared with misty prints, their odour is nauseating like a half shrunk birthday balloon, but here on the white red soft tablecloth is vinegar to clear the view. It only takes one moment to know that it only stinks from the outside, so as long as one is sitting here, the nausea is out there and the vinegar stays unused where it is.
Behind the glass is the black river of coffee that marks this city as an uneventful facefull sea. Unbreathable and sticky.
Patterns of gnarled branches, stamped by the God-the-Coin Machine, change in antish, liquid lines under the thick foam, surfacing stripped off the omens and marching samewise.
It's a day of all somes, when all the churches' wonderful dears bare it all in Vanity Fair.
On the edge of the High Street there are some beggars, they have no shoes for their taloned feet, but they have enough to get a little bit of something else. The beefed roast of crack. They are buying the delusions that mongrels with the ships pull out of their dirty ass-on pockets, their stinking shit matted tails with a great deal of bombast swing like guillotine's swish. It is of no wonder that they had to glue hard the labels on their chimeric wares - 'I am the chosen One. The Masses love me, me, the Star of no sky', between their few yellowed fangs howling incomprehensibly that old Bros song as a lucky charm. For today, their profit is made and the beggars chose their air. Then they place their short, fat fingers on the bricks, gather the audience, their own shouts and shrieks will have them believe it's Beethoven's Ninth. Although the audience knows that Lady Gaga sounds better than their asinine notes, they politely clap. What else can they do? Some acts of kindness survive
still.
White rose petals fall one inch an hour.
T and I burst out laughing. There surely is a classless society parading in front of our eyes. We look away from the spectacles behind the windows and settle on careful examination of silence and sound, sipping minimally, watching the colours imprinted on the skin of our eyes.
Let the beggars do their bitching, their shrunken passion clocking the paltry minutes between their awkward vainglorious legs.
- - -
Petra Whiteley was born in Czech and lives in UK since 1993 and is the author of 'The Moulding of Seers' (Shadow Archer Press, 2009) and 'The Nomad's Trail' (Ettrick Forest Press, 2008), she is a regular writer for The Glasgow Review and Osprey, poetry and prose published in many print and online magazines.
By Petra Whiteley
The window of the café is smeared with misty prints, their odour is nauseating like a half shrunk birthday balloon, but here on the white red soft tablecloth is vinegar to clear the view. It only takes one moment to know that it only stinks from the outside, so as long as one is sitting here, the nausea is out there and the vinegar stays unused where it is.
Behind the glass is the black river of coffee that marks this city as an uneventful facefull sea. Unbreathable and sticky.
Patterns of gnarled branches, stamped by the God-the-Coin Machine, change in antish, liquid lines under the thick foam, surfacing stripped off the omens and marching samewise.
It's a day of all somes, when all the churches' wonderful dears bare it all in Vanity Fair.
On the edge of the High Street there are some beggars, they have no shoes for their taloned feet, but they have enough to get a little bit of something else. The beefed roast of crack. They are buying the delusions that mongrels with the ships pull out of their dirty ass-on pockets, their stinking shit matted tails with a great deal of bombast swing like guillotine's swish. It is of no wonder that they had to glue hard the labels on their chimeric wares - 'I am the chosen One. The Masses love me, me, the Star of no sky', between their few yellowed fangs howling incomprehensibly that old Bros song as a lucky charm. For today, their profit is made and the beggars chose their air. Then they place their short, fat fingers on the bricks, gather the audience, their own shouts and shrieks will have them believe it's Beethoven's Ninth. Although the audience knows that Lady Gaga sounds better than their asinine notes, they politely clap. What else can they do? Some acts of kindness survive
still.
White rose petals fall one inch an hour.
T and I burst out laughing. There surely is a classless society parading in front of our eyes. We look away from the spectacles behind the windows and settle on careful examination of silence and sound, sipping minimally, watching the colours imprinted on the skin of our eyes.
Let the beggars do their bitching, their shrunken passion clocking the paltry minutes between their awkward vainglorious legs.
- - -
Petra Whiteley was born in Czech and lives in UK since 1993 and is the author of 'The Moulding of Seers' (Shadow Archer Press, 2009) and 'The Nomad's Trail' (Ettrick Forest Press, 2008), she is a regular writer for The Glasgow Review and Osprey, poetry and prose published in many print and online magazines.
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