Tag Archives: cafe

Cosmic Band-Aids

The coalescing Seattle twilight was an interplaying illusion of dusk and haze, warm colours replacing the pastel skylines, only to be painted over by the deep indigo eventide. The local rustic town café was already closing up, and they barely had time to finish the last bites of their chocolate bonbons and sip the remaining drops of their hazelnut vanilla frappé, before the intermittent barista ushered them out—quite literally, with a tremulous hand and an apologetic jilted demeanour. Now they stood outside the establishment in introspective reverie, dimmed bronze sodium streetlight the only solitary light source that resiliently pierced through the caliginous melancholy.

She was a blushing rose, liquid and pale, every infinitesimal detail somehow magnified to be remarkably interesting. Fragrance of baby’s breath and frankincense, posture of a regal and sophisticated monarch, delicate face as that of an angel’s glimpse of paradise, personality of an intricate vintage lock and a million exploding suns. Her companion, admittedly, was a person of less enigma, yet was still a character of significance, an oakwood branch, roughly-hewn and intense, simple yet charismatic. That svelte and cheeky-looking fellow had untidy coffee-tint hair, a discursive ironic smirk, an insouciant slouch, and a steely glint that, more often than not, signalled trouble.

As the fog and the regent shadows further intensified, the pauses and discomfited silence between them further attenuated. Moments passed. Her candyfloss-pink sundress fluttered like a jaded butterfly as she tucked a frayed bookmark behind her seashell ear, and her taciturn companion watched her intently, like an engrossed pawnbroker. Without permission, he began to remove his worn tan overcoat and gingerly placed the article over her cool shoulders, still warm and cosy by his own body heat. Flustered by the uncalled attention, she turned away to brush a stray raven hair back into her gossamer tufted bun, and lost grip of her book of poems, fragile pages yellowed and dogeared with age. Sylvia Plath’s ancient anthology dropped with a soft thump right side up, opening uncannily on the centre page containing Mad Girl’s Love Song, and both bent down and fumbled clumsily to pick it up in haste.

Fingers tangled. Glances exchanged. Blue eyes collided with green. Hands clenched. Throats choked. Hearts skipped. Breaths hitched. Souls shattered. Their blueberry-strawberry swirl ice cream melted absently like calligraphy on the pavement. The book now lay abandoned and forgotten, its unspoken poetry dancing alongside the breeze. No words were whispered. None were necessary. Overhead, the last of the brimstone shades faded away, and incandescent stars splashed the darkness of the falling sky. Below, firework eyes showered sparks, and skins intertwined. Witnessing it all, hiding behind the wisps of pewter clouds and overlooking the nocturnal planet, the glowing moon quaintly smiled.

Advertisements

5 Comments

Filed under Prose

Tissue Sketches #3: café chicago

Chicago skylines twirl, a scintillating maid

A distant glow which never seems to fade

Indulge in tastes of saccharine decadence

Flavours myriad dancing, still quite intense

Nocturnal owls hum as the clock strikes eleven

For a whimsical soul, this quaint place is heaven.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Tissue Sketches #2: sugar skies and coffee cup moon

Night falls like java spilling over napkins

Cappuccino milky way in haziest dreams

Mocha kissed stars, amidst latte galaxies

Warmth colliding chills, espresso affinities

I’m addicted to caffeine, and the sky’s a café

No wonder it always makes me stay past late.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Tissue Sketches #1: bullet holes over san francisco

Oh, cross my heart and hope to die

And for you I’ll steal the sunset sky

I wondered why on skipping stones

I’d love to unravel your corset bones

Blueberries’ kisses, as blue as the sea

So sing acoustics music softer for me

We’ll end the night with cookie cakes

And a strawberry daiquiri by the lake.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Scenes and Sketches

Oh, how it’s been so long,
We’re so sorry we’ve been gone,
We were busy writing songs for you…

~*~

RAIN WALKS

Feet disturbing rainbow puddles

Wading in the ankle-deep flood

Zephyr and rain torn in muddles

Lost in the milky film of the fog.

~*~

PETTY ARGUMENTS

A shattered half-empty wineglass

Vermilion stains on cream carpet

Tongues storming off, quite crass

Tied in a fight that no one started.

~*~

BUSY CITY

Cosmopolites bustling angry in line

News swing from vine to grapevine

Suits and silk dresses, a bar rumble

Jane is lost in a crazy asphalt jungle.

~*~

DRUNKEN BETS

Caveats written in the cigarette air

Warnings washing up in selt water

Broken glass bottles decides dares

But the last laugh goes to the waiter.

~*~

EXQUISITE CAFÉ

Casual conversation in the quaint quiet lattice

Tall drinks of foamy, rich, and sweetest lattes

Croissants, cakes, pastries, a phantasmagoria

A mollifying ambience far away from hysteria.

~*~

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Cafe Culaccino

Culacinno: noun; an Italian word describing the mark left on a surface by a cold glass.

~*~

In front of me, a brown-tinted awakening potion

Stirring; very slightly, occasionally.

Thick curls of steam, a warm devotion

And a single cube of sugar melting; slowly.

.

Time ticks by. People hastily rush off.

And yet somehow I’m frozen. So mesmerising,

The whirls of kaleidoscopic patterns are

Forming on the surface; so hypnotising.

.

A slight bump causes my trance to snap

Somebody accidentally spilled their cup

Midday scuffle, but simply breaks even

As the hand points its way on the number eleven

.

I return to my coffee, in the cush table I’m alone

By the window, society functioning, passersby on their phone

Nullified existences. Nearly industrial.

Lives of survival, technology and metal.

.

Time’s up. I sip the remaining scalding liquid down

Grab my hat and my case and head off to town

All that remains, a wispy ghost of my visit

A perfectly round mark on the wooden table, a cry of a soul in transit.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry