Stale —

by Ralkkai

The sky is covered in dark clouds
and my mood is a mirror
of rain to come and thunder
like worms across your vision
twisting in front of your pupils
and you try to blink it all away —

Coffee at 6:57 pm
and I’m surrounded by mountains
of synthetic things
covered in the latest fashion
and skin stretched over skulls
sipping iced mochas
and staring at their iPhones with blank
“what time is it” stares.

All the beatniks have been replaced
like recalls from factories
by these Mario Bros. mannequins.
wearing fancy mustaches
and shitting out nothing but
drivel and they tip their fedoras
like a trained monkey —
one that smoke expensive cigarettes

All the beatniks are now gone
and the scene has become stale.
There is a black chalkboard
hanging above the counter
“Palace Live” it yelled at me in carved
yellow and pink
chalk lines.
“Sat June 1st” and under that
“open mic.”

Maybe I’ll read some
for this new ugly group of writers
maybe I’ll toss some of mine their way
and see if it sticks.

I doubt it though.

The sky is grey
and my mood is grey, cloudy
pale and out of focus.

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