He stood fifty times his height,
his palms pressed against the glass
separating him from the road in their glamour;
blurred images of car in their splendor –
and there isn’t the
familiar scent of coffee –
I call this pandemonium.

Nothing beats a day in a café
redolent of the finest Arabica,
he’d inhale deeply and recall :
unroasted gives the sweetest scents
of blueberries –
roasted’s entirely different:
fruit, sugar, perfume –
They call this addiction.

Mnemonic – a wind chime
lost in the array of winds.
“You used to be my cup of tea –
I drink coffee now.”
These words slip out of his dry lips,
and a lone tear trickles down a milky cheek;

They all say if they’ve got love,
they don’t need money –

And he’d say if he’s got coffee,
he doesn’t need love –
He calls this heaven.

If nostalgia beset your mind
Come to Ethiopia
A cradle of mankind!

Come to Ethiopia
With no hesitation
Ancient civilization
Will engross your attention!

Before identity quest
You smother
Come to Ethiopia 'cause
Lucy, your  great,
Great grandmother
You could watch closer!
A melting *** of
Over 80 ethnic groups,who
With cordial hospitality,
Will embrace you
Without standing to ceremony
Or formality.

Come to Ethiopia
A mosaic of culture
A true place for adventure!

If you need
An original taste of
Coffee Arabica
Come to Ethiopia
A beacon light to Africa
To freedom fighters
Up to America.

Come to Ethiopia
You will meet there
People who have to borrow
Valour from no where!


Come to Ethiopia
Triggering off no
Feelings of discomfort
Mosques churches abut.

Come to Ethiopia
In a way description that defy
A church by a Muslim name goes by!

Come to Ethiopia
An exemplary country
To deter common enemy
To spur development
In a spectacular bent
Muslims and Christians unite!

Come to Ethiopia
Whose name on the bible
Times beyond number bubble!


Come to Ethiopia
For his persecuted
Followers, the Prophet
Mohammed a high-heaven marked!

Come to Ethiopia
Now on the path of renaissance
Mutual regional growth and
A sustainable  peace
Are whose unwavering stance!

Come to Ethiopia
A country with its own
Alphabet and calendar!
Of course you will wonder
when you get
Yourself eight years younger!

Come to Ethiopia
To feast your eyes
On breathtaking water falls
Scenery and greenery
God-hand-made caves
Endemic animals and birds
Live volcanoes
Obelisks and
Rock-hewn churches.
You shall feast
Your eyes on Harar wall
For the Muslim
A holy city on row four!
You will stand a chance
For Ivangadi
A traditional spectacular dance
Also Konso's terrace.

Come to Ethiopia
Aside from adventure,
You could collect
Invincible athletes
And successful Olympians'
Signature!
Your souvenir picture
With them you may capture!
Of course
You can board 'Ethiopian'
That was there when
The horizon of aviation
History we scan.

Come to Ethiopia
The celebration of
The finding of the true cross
The pilgrimage
To Sheik Hussein Mosque
And epiphany
That have no parallels by any!

Come to Ethiopia
To see first-hand
A country
13 months sunny!

Come to Ethiopia
To enjoy
A Teff-made
Flat bread organic
Found not carcinogenic!
You will gather
Like coffee
Teff and its bread chemistry
Age-old, with it, that were there,
Are blessings
To the rest of the world
Ethiopia Proffer!

Come to Ethiopia
If you want to understand
As to what is meant
By black pride!

If you worry about class
Ethiopia today
Has countless
Hotels shining with stars!

By Alem Hailu G/Kristo

I shouldn’t be drinking coffee.
I shouldn’t be reading the news.
It makes me anxious, and it’s not only the chemical interaction.
Somehow, I associate it with “adulthood”—reading the news,
Drinking coffee—I can’t tell you how many days of the last few
Years have been spent entirely in this fashion. The coffee
Growing cold and the news colder still. I don’t even taste the
black, fluid drops. I don’t hear the screams of people I read
about. I just want to hold on to something—so I raise the glass
to my lips. I can’t say

the shocking words when my mouth’s full; I can’t tell

about my experience, my privilege, when I’m drinking it.


The production of the commodity

creates a line from some equatorial region
to central America, and my mouth.
I think about the Autumn I worked in a corn-seed
sorting facility. What a short experience—
and yet,
something that weighs heavy on my imagination.
I was a temp worker.
I chose to work there out of shame and guilt for having
missed the deadline for college enrollment.
I could have done anything else; but there were people
there who wanted nothing more than a job. They needed
to be
there.
And I think of the people involved in producing coffee beans

in much the same way.
Removed
from the thing they’re making, as the raw materials are shipped
to places you pay workers more.
Why shouldn’t I swallow with difficulty when faced with the pro-
spect of a person supporting their entire family with the type
of work
I did
reflexively, as a choice?

Now I sit here, reading about North African riots,
a region, where coffee is produced—
ARABICA COFFEE— and I think about what’s sitting
in my cup, how I have
spent more money than they make in a day
to buy
one container
…
and sit here
for an afternoon
doing nothing but reading about their families’ misery.

I am a human parasite.

And like the bedbugs that have crawled meticulously
between my mattress and bedframe, hiding in a safe spot
until they can come out, undetected, and **** my potency.

I sit here, in the comfort of an apartment furnished
and paid for by my father who grows corn in a highly-
mechanized, agricultural society. I take more and more,
festering to the size of a blistering, red dot
blinking in the dark, in the form of the record light on
my voice recorder.
I expect so much more from myself, simply because of
this position of luxury.

But I don’t take time to think about my reaction to these
stories or how I am involved in them, in shaping their plots.
I’m even eating more now
as I’ve nearly lost my concern with avoiding certain super-
markets.
I smile at the greeters, make small talk with the cashiers
whom I am openly exploiting. But it’s ok, because
I worked for a month at a cornseed manufacturing
facility
and I read Marxist Ideology,
and I know about the Arab Spring
and I was against American intervention in Libya
and I disdain the air strikes from robotic planes
(unauthorized by congress)
and I disdain congress
and I support gay marriage
(I stopped eating chicken).
I don’t drive to the suburbs of my city.
I walk and ride my bicycle as much as I feel like.
I use public transportation at times.
I try to get to know women.
I practiced safe ***, once.
I write poetry.
I tell my mom I love her.
I bought my nieces birthday presents.
I’m not overly nice to people of different
ethnicities.
I voted for Obama.
I’m trying.
All these things make it seem less bad
to smile at the cashier.
But then I think about my black studies Professor
who used a walker to come to class
because she fell
and spelled the word Amendment “Admendment”
on the board when talking about Reconstruction.
I think about the war in Syria.
I think of people dying from cholera in Haiti, in 2012
A.D.
I think about fracking and oil spills and …
irrevocable damage to Indian reservations.
I think about football coaches molesting children
and people eating fried butter.
I read about people
upset
with a movie
who protest in the streets for days.

It makes me realize I shouldn’t smile at anyone.
I shouldn’t be drinking coffee.
I shouldn’t be reading the news.

In that moment, your skin was perfect
Just like the rest of you.
Soft, gentle, pure...
How could I resist?

Here, now, I can see
Our time had a taste like Arabica.
Short, bittersweet, with notes of hazelnut.
But in that instant,
That eternal moment,
There was not one drop of coffee
On your lips.

Because you were the first girl
I almost kissed.
And you were the first girl
I wrote poems about.

I know they didn't rhyme, but
It was the best I could do.
Y'know, poetry was kinda new
To me. But I wrote it for you.

Better?

caramel macchiato flavored coffee with mint cigarette flavored kisses with your dreamboat lover is the quintessence of what i call "perfection".  if there was a way to describe the way your lips feel against mine, i could only describe it as "cigarettes and coffee".  cigarettes and coffee isn't simply consuming caffeine or inhaling tobacco in your lungs, it's sitting on the roof at 1 am looking at the stars with a blanket around the both of you.  it's laying in the grass with a slight breeze blowing making smoke rings between the arduous kisses.  it's simply sipping a vanilla latte on the corner of a new york city street with a cigarette in your hand, making swirls of smoke as more ash forms above the filter,  looking like some sort of bohemian gods. it's walking along a deserted sidewalk in your black jeans and doc martens with a big t-shirt and coke bottle sunglasses on with your lover on your hip and your menthol in one hand and philter in another.  "cigarettes and coffee" is whatever you can interpret as pure bliss; it's simply whatever makes you happy and whatever makes you want to sit in the grass all night and talk about anything and everything.  there's a lot of people that would argue there's no beauty to the feel of tobacco in your lungs and arabica in your mouth, but evidently, they've never tried cigarettes and coffee.

(  
     )


In the silence of cold, quiet,
after midnight hours...wind
audibly pushes branches and
leaves...sends them swaying
and rustling....i hear the rain
falling...like small nails hitting
the neighbor's acrylic eave.

the peace of these unholy hours
empowers me...i feel, i rule the world,
my senses and my mind are sharpest..
while others are asleep and dreaming.

everyone's eyes are closed...mine, too,
yet, i am so awake, i see this cauldron,
where my life's goings-on are stirred by
an unknown force, spinning clockwise,
simmering, nothing burns, or breaks,
for, underneath, its fire burns slow...

good and bad issues mix and join
the stew of old stubborn ones;
daily rigors, wee triumphs blend in,
like a goulash of meat and veggies,
slowly cooking, as fire burns slow,
giving time...............taking time
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::­­:::::::::::::::::::
the strong aroma of arabica jolts me
from my reverie...it matters not if i
haven't slept......6 am, i'm back to
reality.....lots of work await me
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::­­:::::::::::::::::::
five-pm past, arabica again stands by
me as i watch the orange fires of sunset,
hear the crickets sing, or a frog's croak,
while my rocking thoughts are cradled,
while i enjoy some peace and quiet,
exuded by a fragrant twilight.....it's
that feel-good part of each day...saying
gratitude for every sunrise and sunset,
while my candle's fire burns slow....
........
......
...

Sally

©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
  January 6, 2021

enter slav digressing with the celt... yeah, saxony, once known as the northern arm's length of parody shaking oiled up speaking saracen sign language: arabica wavy wavy bye bye. you concrete those words in i roof it over, then we can both admire the rich russian vixens dry up their wealth with the saudis - we need television after all - and it’s in 3-d! and it’s 1-d head-banging closure! :)... ;( :x, :s, \: (mouth’s missing but i have a mammoth in malibu -
and my love can’t aim to have the mortgage too - but hey, girl’s heading for the one coin-flip  dolphin clap; and i was a teenager once too... but played grand theft auto 2d throughout asking for a bottle of whiskey and a panda’s / koala’s bothersome diet to hunt sleep); is there some sign language translation of emoji? i just don't have the talents to enter the emoji language and become a *******! or make democracy justly an exclusion of cowards and ******? i can’t do that, let’s utilise charles the third! ‘too busy, too fuzzy,’ well hear and karma sutra the talk of the man, after all the coinage and respecting the hedgehog on his head.

i cleaned it into a hotel like i would into a brothel,
while the suffragettes
looked like the elephant man in niqāb,
and i was ready
with the fist; although i shook less
than i spoke to mouth it off into democracy
continuing the power struggle vetoed with bodies extracted
into the count warranting mourning.
what success is it if a white boy in a western society
can’t leave the nest and establish a taxable one to suit power?
where’s the power then, in the stateless individual?
where is your power to my ******* of being given wife and house
not given? where?!
if i can’t be the individuated pawn power broker you can’t be in power... idiots!
you have to give me the ******* i “desire” to be in power, if you can’t,
you’re not in power! ave augustus ave ego!
try contort the square into a triangle by contorting **** into fck.... ah ****...
you already did... where’s the spanks’ worth of bullseye?!
you germans have no decency in human affairs
than you have to inspect **** movies varied
by wildebeest stampedes
from guernsey into gibraltar in gifs, do you?
well i did **** off a palm tree and got a coconut for an oasis’ worth of thirst.

My Laura
how tomorrow
was your
time lace
with bona
fide séance
in these
highlands of
Arabica here
in America
always vernacular
with a
sound heard
round world  
to triumph
love with
our beliefs.

What pretty words flow,
From carpel tunnel hands!
Fingers click clock on keyboards,
Time sifting like sugar.

Creativity ebbs and flows--
Like the gentle rock
Of cerulean tide,
Lulling soul after soul to sleep.

The smell of arabica,
And chicory soup
Stifles surreptitiously--
(Twentyfourseven)

With admiring eyes
I glance down at the stark white background--
My bones ache for the lush black ink
To be my own words!

But until then I'll sit at the bottom
Of this empty poetry well,
Chain smoking and longing
To be on that **** front page.

Yesterday I spilt the beans,
100% Colombia Arabica.

Daisy, the Border Collie
from Westport in Mayo,

Was on to the # Browny's
in a flash, just as Kaldi's

Goats were, in Ethiopia
circa 850 A.D.

The 250 grams of beans
were no different to a herd

Of sheep scattered on the
hill of Croagh Patrick.

I was the poor shepherd
while Daisy, true to her

Evolutionary inheritance
went after the fleeing flock,

Though not to help put them back
in the bag, she began to eat them!

A night from hell ensued, wooden
floors, long nails, pacing, pacing.

Daisy had her first high, but
today, she is in a sheep dip.

Precious chance for a lonely thought,
Loose, slip-fades sinuously free
A melodious stream of nostalgic mist
From a mug of Arabica sea.

Curiously exhaled from dissonance
In an amber lit café.
He imagines himself a sojourner,
A wayfarer without a way.

Long shore drift en echelon
Long minutes march by metronome
Long is the spellbound beachcomber
For an island all his own.

Long is the dream of an inland man
Lost to his seaside girl.
Diver down where the standard waves
Swimming dizzy for a polished pearl.

Light from her eyes plays on sea glass chips
Tumbled in the curling waves
That crest and break on a beach that waits
for a wish he once had made.

The surf is heard like a lingering kiss
breathing ripples on the smoothening sand
And just as the whisper and simmering fades,
Another promise swells, tumbles, and lands.

The ocean is love running breathless,
In a race between the moon and the sun,
Causing tides to surge across the poignant curve
Of an incandescent blue horizon.

A tranquil star contracts and bursts
In pulsing neon spires.
There’s forever a star expiring
While life glows from embers in a dying fire.

If this writer could paint, it would be a portrait
of the empty space beside him.
Awaiting the image of a seagoing girl,
He turns his canvas into a thirsting ocean.

It was one summer morning
that I found myself
half-awake, hung-over
on the floor.
My lover have left me
half-naked, half-baked.

He took my black *****
and brewed himself a
fresh batch of Arabica;
a teaspoon of sugar,
two for cream.

He left my mug
with coffee stains
from his lips.

I licked it off.

concept of meaning: nibbles
on the crumbs
of bread
fallen like snowflakes
upon the altar,
before the boa pounce,
and death...
a return to obliterating
a woman's 9 month's
worth of baggage...
come to think of it...
death is man's
concept of birth...
since the already
living...
       come first,
but with a **** second,
and a self-****
******* coming third...
hands down...
hardly the *******
Olympics,
jerking off 19th century
patriots when
hearing a national anthem;
and i'll be mysoginistic
on only one
observation...
drinking heavy liquor
really doesn't do women
much good...
    women don't know
how to drink...
                can't keep away
from their ***** tongue,
namely,  cleaning offices,
rather than earning the quick
buck in Amsterdam...
     I hate to say it but drunk
women are bog standard
bogus... unless employed
by a medical profession,
namely surgeons...
come to think of it...
a career in undertaking,
or at the butchers...
   fiddly intestines,  sure...
but a woman competing with
a man when drinking?
          too much...
nostalgia...
   too many regrets...
   and I hope tomorrow comes...
so I can knock myself out
hanging above
the bottle-neck of yet another
70cl absolute...
   room temp. Swedish *****
with a chaser?
       apparently,  not a problem;
as jealous as I might be,
living to being a centirian...
and a body, become baggage...
people will only settle the
abortion debate,  by settling
euthanasia, non debate...
      as lonely as:
what sort of drinker requires
company, whole drinking,
other than the promise of sleep,
and his sober self, returning
to the posit of a functioning day?
I didn't say women shouldn't drink...
I just said: women don't know
how to drink...
    no wonder... prohibiting
alcohol in Islam...
considering the fact that alcohol
works as a placebo
in faking audacity, biologically:
faking a rise in body temp....
no problem...
Islam two point oh...
curbing sugar intake...
if these camel jockeys think
alcohol is haram...
me thinks, adding sugar
to the list is next....
                   friend,
if you can't drink, or don't know
how to drink...
don't drink!
but don't think that replacing
high concentrate fermented sugars...
will be an excuse to
gorge on the current,
diabetica arabica.

The strong smell of coffee hit the breeze or the fan
Driving it to my smell, to my nose with a plan
What a blessing, what a gem
To be in a Coffee Shop at 9:30 Am

The sound of the chimes ringing, the glass doors swing in
The coffee lashing tin, the sound of the songs come so thin
How happy the sounds to them
In the Coffee Shop at 9:30 Am

Friends, business men, students, and fancy women
Anyone could be here from hero to villain
Where there's peace and mayhem
In a Coffee Shop at 9:30 Am

The ceramic mugs heat to the touch
With the temperature of the air conditioning and such
The dangiling of my skirt from waist to hem
The feelings I have in the Coffee Shop at 9:30 Am

The final taste of cake with coffee, mixture of frosting and bean
Last gulp of strong Arabica until the mug is clean
Still my favorite place from now and then
Me in a Coffee shop at 9:30 Am

it’s the strangest thing
everyday I suffer from
amnesia
some sort of blackout
I can’t remember….
can’t quite grasp…
something I’ve forgotten
a faint shadow haunting the
outer limits of consciousness
I open my eyes and the
world rushes in
deliciously, sensuously
like the hypnotic aroma
of arabica coffee beans
and other seductive
voluptuous, delectable
tantalizing novelties

So, I chant Your name
light candles, meditate and
pray I’ll remember

who I am

or as they say in china -
english and the staggering geographic region
it occupies, you’d expect it to implode,
or at least living in such a region the implosion
would leave many many loopholes
to break as many laws as there are laws to break,
the really imaginary laws about how
ol’ McDonald had a farm - a list of the usual onomatopoeias:
puck puck cluck cluck pig’s ******* snort and the crafty moo mime
ending with dictator orwell talking into the pig’s ****:
‘yeah... let’s copyright the words einstein, red and coffee arabica
and sue the ******* should they use them without our permission!’
then the problem arose...
there are no proper onomatopoeias for
the majority of sounds contained in this fish bowl
of stars and vacuum cleaners...
or as they say in japan -
yes... just keep en route of appreciating alice in wonderland
and think nothing of it, keep en route on this “serious”
literature... also have it in cutiepie (q t π / forget the sense)
and ***** ***** *****... then watch the fireworks display
on the thames with charles 2nd and händel...
we’ll just brutalise the world in cartoon and keep the gore there
heavily coloured... while you keep this bright colour usage
squidgy squid clean.

I think what will give me away,
(now that I am back in Cork) after
almost 50 years, is not my accent,
but Barry's Tea, I rebelled, now I
am a 100% Illy Arabica supporter,
the red colour is all right though!

Oh vile distasteful counterfeit
A generic imitation, abomination
How dare you mar the original one
Through mass marketing and sales pitching

And imitation born not of inspiration
but of cultivation by a selfish nation
A faked attempt you are
Plagiarism in its purest form

Chicory you deceitful liar
weaving your way into our homes
Replacing the proud Coffea Arabica
Rendering it nothing but a luxury to most

Away with you you mutant substance!
Be not a part of my house and home
For in this house is sanctioned pure
And only the best will endure.

FICTION.

Imagine driving up to a
forecourt of a filling station
where, for some bazaar
reason, there's only one
pump but it is not marked,
whether it is petrol or diesel.

You are aware though, what
your car functions on.
There are four males in
pristine uniforms standing
there waiting to serve you.

So, you enquire of one,
"Is the pump petrol or diesel" ?
The first attendant replies:
I don't know, does it matter?

Again you ask, is there anyone
I could enquire from, to be sure?
The second one replies this time:
"You could go on line and find out".
You respond,"I have no time for that now".

The third attendant gets involved.
"If you come back tomorrow, the
owner will be here and you can ask".
So, you try to explain that you want
it now, because you are going to a
funeral in 15 minutes.

The fourth attendant comes up with
a suggestion.
"If I squirt some on the ground, could
you tell the difference" ?
                    <>

                  FACT

I walked into a coffee shop and for
some bazaar reason the bean dispenser
did not display whether it was Arabica
or Robusta.

I have an educated palate and know
well which of the two is my preferred
choice. There were four females in pristine
uniforms waiting to serve me.

So, I enquired, of one, is this coffee
Arabica or Robusta?
The first waitress replies,
" I don't know, does it matter " ?

Again I asked, is there anyone
I could enquire from, to be sure?
The second one replies this time:
"You could go on line and find out"
I responded, "I have no time for that now".

The third waitress gets involved.
"If you come back tomorrow, the
owner will be here and you can ask".
So, I tried to explain that I wanted
it now, because I was going to a
funeral in 15 minutes.

The fourth waitress comes up with
a suggestion.
"If I spill beans on the counter, could
you tell the difference" ?

                    <>

This is an accurate account of an
incident I experienced yesterday.
Also, I would like to add, I once
owned a cafe,  had a coffee club
but more importantly, I do not use
sugar, therefore Robusta can be
vile and bitter on the palate, if one
is not having it in tandem with
sweet cake or desert. Whereas, an
Arabica, though less caffeine, is
a much softer taste.
But Ireland is a tea drinking nation
and despite being EEC pseudo
continentals since the 70s
somethings can never be changed.

Nightfall. A sliver of moon in the sky. The rumbling and tumbling of shouting free spirits toss around the meandering darkness. All that segments this organic manifestation, is an occasional, thump.

At least to the narrator. One ‘blessed’ step at a time. The eternal and everlasting thump of one foot in front of the other. Wonder if my longing and hammered foot travels as Telemachus?

The birds chirp in harmonious rhythm. Odd. Should either chirp with a sway, or be passed out, by now. All us tethered beings should swing with the immortal swing, or so I’m thinking.

Tick, tock. Arabica, slam. Jam with the jittery, immortal jam. Or whatever garb I had been throwing my way. Passed through the ‘wisdom’ of my culture, and greedily accepted by my reward circuity.

One big, machine ‘learner’.

Putting that all behind us, it always leaves a longing soul with gritting teeth.

So there I was. 4 p.m. Caffeine crash can’t even begin to describe it. A ‘crash’ designates a single day. A single face to face relationship with ones decision to kiss and tango with a sacred substance.

I was knee, I say knee, deep, in an affair.

At that point it’s not just some shallow reaction to your mind grasping at some crutch it has designated for a moment.

Not to be dramatic. But habit flows to river real quick.

So there I was. 4 p.m. Tryin to swim.

All I had for a life raft. *****.

Get drunk with my friends. That giddy, pushin others on my level on a weekday, giddy.

Push that bravais lattice, PDE numerical simulation, concentration boundary layer, **** to the side.

I was tryin’ to push MY boundary layer.

Yet here I am. 2 a.m.

Everyone is sleepin’.

All I have for company is my, thump, thump, thump.

On my way to the ocean.

Because God will listen to me Cry, and Scream.

Tu meurs d'envie de moi
Et tu me dis tout de go
J'ai envie de toi
Là
Maintenant
Bande
Bande
Bande
Et tu chronomètres le temps
Qu'il me faudra pour atteindre
La taille exacte que tu désires
Et quand le petit soldat s'exécute
Au quart de tour comme tu l'exiges
Quand il pointe l'arme vers tes neiges éternelles
Tu dis : Garde à vous, fixe
Tu condamnes mes fesses au peloton d'exécution
Au clic de ton appareil photo
Tu tires à vue
Tu mitrailles à bout portant
Et quand tu es enfin satisfaite de la pose
Tu dis :
Déposez arme
Et je me dégonfle
Instantanément

Et tu exaltes, tu jubiles
De ta toute puissance
Je suis ta chose, ton pantin
Ton esclave
Tu es ma maîtresse
Et tu me flagelles à distance de ton flash.

Et tu exiges des photos explicites
Des gros plans, des détails intimes
De mes parties honteuses
Tu veux la vulve qui dort paisiblement sous mon aisselle
Tu veux la raie du cul qui se dessine dans le creux de mon coude

Tu veux la trique qui ronfle
Au coeur de la mangrove du mont de Venus

Tu veux le trou de mon cul dans le nombril béant
Que je forme de mes plantes de pied jointes
Tu veux que mon sein gauche secrète
A gogo des tasse de café chaud arabica

Tu veux tout
Tout de suite
Le tout et les parties
Sans filtre
Sans retouches

Tu dis que mains et mes doigts t'excitent
Et tu suces mes ongles pour en soutirer
Les envies et les cuticules

Et tu mordilles mes orteils
Lentement l'un après l'autre
Tu croques
Histoire de voir si je suis chatouilleux
Ou si je ne suis pas déjà mort

Et tu veux que je me batte en douce
Comme on bat la campagne
Comme on bat un cil et les cartes
Comme on bat le fer quand il est chaud
Comme on bat le grain pour le moudre
Comme on bat sa coulpe
Comme on bat la mesure
Et comme on bat son coeur
Je me bats en douce
Je te baptises de mon foutre
Je te fais des messes basses
Et je fais main basse sur tes envies
A voix basse
Je m'exécute
Je t'exécute
Car tu reignes vierge souveraine,
En sourdine, Osmose et Extase,
Dans mon royaume tantrique.

The howling maelstrom of wireless
Haunts the air unseen
Blue toothed demonic
It whips up white caps of restlessness
And drives sleep onto the rocks

Blowing through keyboard tickers
And screen flickers
There’s a digital mosquito hum in the rigging
And the sheets fill with an endless cacophony
Of Arabica bean buzz

Your physiognomy is a book
Rolled up like a chart in a tube
The cabin cricket in its cage
Twittering nonsense
And lusts of cute and food
And anti anti anti

Both bullies and victims at the masthead
Squeal and rage and defecate
Raw sewage dribbling down the bow
In a million billion ones and zeros

Sailors lost in foreign climes
With no purpose on land
The motley crew self-gratify
Thinking
Come the dawn we’ll all be back at sea

Not realising
That with the globe at your fingertips
Both night and day are constants
Lash yourself to the mast
Else be washed overboard

All the stars you used to sail by
Have become little more
Than dead pixels on a screen

© 2018 Steve Kelly aka kellyocs

Decapitated Coffee.

       Froth Less

100% Pure Arabica
Sword Top Skimmed

          M.B.S.

  Moka Bin Sabre.

Diesel or Petrol?
Robusta or Arabica?

No Sir, if you mix the
former, the car won't work!

Well, if that is the case, why
do you have a coffee blend
and how much of that Robusta
**** have you put through the
filter without telling us the ratio
to Arabica, *******, sell your
bitter crap to The Americans.

Caféière rime avec cimetière

Comme doublons rime avec bourdons.

Quel rapport me direz-vous ?

Synonymie. Homonymie. Toponymie. Antonymie. Taphonomie

Je vous en fais la démonstration ?

Revenons des lustres ou des siècles en arrière

Au temps des bois-debout

Quand il n'y avait ni gaulettes ni squelettes

Ni café rat, ni robusta,

Ni machette, ni croix

Mais seulement des trous de crabe,

Des conques et des mordants épars

Jonchés au gré du hasard des vagues et des cyclones.

Revenons aux origines où bonifieur n'était même pas un mot

Way before Gabriel was a thought

Même pas une pensée en parche

Et qu'ainsi caféière n'étant rien

Elle pouvait aussi bien être synonyme, antonyme

Toponyme et antonyme de cimetière

qui lui aussi n'évoquait

ni café ni mandibule,

ni cerise ni tibia,

ni humérus ni libéria,

ni robusta ni radius

ni torréfaction ni putréfaction

ni arabica ni mort...

Dans les pépinières carrées de la mort

Caféière et cimetière se donnaient la main

On murmure même qu'ils étaient amants !

L'un bonifiait l'autre

Pour le meilleur et pour le pire

Tandis que la houe du soleil ne torréfiait pas encore

Dans un cycle immuable leurs terres consacrées,

Sarclées par le temps,

Binées par le vent,

Creusées par les laves,

Repiquées par les cendres,

Paillées par les eaux,

Egourmandées par les croix,

Cueillies par les armes

Trempées par les bénitiers,

Frottées ,

Lavées,

Essorées,

Séchées,

Bonifiées,

Taillées,

Traitées
­
Etait aussi invisible que la galerie creusée dans les ravines

en ce temps-là l'idée même d'une caféière désaffectée semblait incongrue.

unless i know not of the saxon
proverb,
let me spell it out in latin
innocentes prior reus...
well... the earth is suddenly flat...
            "all of a sudden"...
in that?
                 the earth rises prior
to the sun....
                       **** the elaboration
of the physical sciences...
        i want: the grit, grind,
             and gravel of what a handshake
ought to be: free from the inadequacy      
of children...
                    and the erotica of lies!
very much akin to wearing masks...
                     only leeches manage
to craft their material possessions
via short-scripts...
      mostly egyptians, which the arabs
shouldn't trust...
      why? because of:
if you ever had a grandma:
cesur alemdaroğlu (the janissary beauty
of non-turkish origin),
  and... my my my, my...
      sühan korludağ...
                   petty blonde petty please...
deaf ears... donkey was whipped...
still didn't buge over the hallucinatory
carrot....
                     b'ah! b'ah!
              loves and leisures lost
to what could have been readied labours!
               stuttering goat.
topsy... turvy... arabica spreschen...
                you are not
guilty, until proven
innocent, but then again,
mob ruke law to shove pawn:
                reus prior innocentes...
            you are now, unfortumately
european...
   you are: guilty until proven innocent...
rather than innocent until
proven guilty....
                 east comes west,
or rather: west prior to all east
other than hiroshima...
          oh now they tell you they're
paranoid about the power,
hiroshima and nagasaki wasn't enough...
testing in the pacific just about did...
get me off, this ******* asylum island!
              upside-down...
             does it really matter these days
to attach oneself to a history?
                   unless it doesn't weight in one
on one with a cinema framnchise?
              as far as i am concerned
the english speaking world can forget the:
innocent until proven guilty
jurisprudence ethos....
                           and the revision being?
you're guilty,
                  whatever proof there is,
is only worth relegation to
2nd tier medicine...
                          either an escape route
via philosophy,
                      or going mad
via zoology...
                          let it be known though:
innocent until proven guilty
  is an argument, dead in anglo-saxon
jurisprudence...
                   #time's up
                 #metoo... etc. etc.,
                  just making sure you know
how anglo-saxon jurisprudence was
inverted into a continental model...
                  of passing laws...
             you're guilty,
               18 years in prison and they're
still debating whether you're safe to
be reintroduced into society...
                           on the basis of:
****... we have made a false incarcertaion...
              good luck... adios!
don't look at me,
         i'm the son who earned the money
and gave it to his mother,
but didn't bother to paint her kitchen with
fresh canary hues...
                           i'm the one:
who will ultimately reveal
        the current times,
by allowing myself to wash my hands clean
of the matter, akin to pontius pilate;
let, the games, begin.

that they might write of porcelain
fiction,  
     that they might don cloaks
and masks and attend the Venetian
carnival, in poem and dream
alone?
            seems such a waste,
a waste when paralleled,
          by a tartar stake and stale
bread yesteryear,
   or yesterday's ko'h'giel mo'h'giel:
3 eggs yokes blitzed
to a pale canary (almost)
           foam with ~2 teaspoons
of sugar, dolloped over like
       an ice sheath over the styxian
black, arabica...
             with the remaining:
      eaten like one might:
       cookie dough...
the raw the autobiographical,
better still,
    no minor truth every looks
sappy or boring,
   not, esp. when weaved into
ciphers of metaphor.

Much better to use beans,
100% Arabica, no strings
attached, well ground,
percolated and sure what
could be bothering you?

I've got a pitch shroud
bubble of gloom, it's a
thought shadow that
appears on the stygian
stairway of my mind
every morning without
fail, a cumulus congestus
dark roasted. But for my
Bialetti™+100% Arabica,
I'd feel like **** all day.