Counter Culture Cafe

The place where the antisocial
Gather to be alone
Each claiming a four-seat table
As space they can call their own.

We read, write and sip in silence
Observing our counterparts
Affronted by vocal violence
Where chattering children pass

I’m nearing the end of one cup
But pause while another stands
It wouldn’t be fair to counter
The pull of their drink demands

So queueing for table service
I duck to avoid the eye
Of waitress who makes me nervous
By bussing a bench nearby

We know those we see here often
But only on nodding terms
Some barriers never soften
And hand-shaking passes germs

Anxiety takes no notice
With all interactions dear
We pass out our days in closeness
And try to ignore our fear

We’re hardly inventing lonely
Though solitude equals peace
And we are our one and only
Unlikely to breed – we’ll cease

It isn’t a cause for wonder
That our generation stalls
When clearing one’s throat is thunder
Too sensitive for applause

And here in our counter culture
We’re safe from the fond embrace
We run from our awkward feelings
Too late to be in the race.

The Anti-Social Conscience

Fear of flying
In the Erica Jong sense
Is not wrong – even for hardcore feminists
We are all intimidated sometimes
When faced with the prospect
Of successful seduction
In an post-AIDS era.

Fear of flying
Bugs with the power to infect
The next generation with long-term consequences
Is a logical response to a natural phenomenon
So we avoid the tropics, where possible
And wear trousers, long-sleeves
And poisoned perfume.

Fear of flying
To exotic climes
With local customs
Hostile to strangers
Would appear an acceptable
Response to the xenophobic
Fury of others – so unlike our own.

Fear of flying
Seems perfectly reasonable –
A socially acceptable phobia for a reduced carbon footprint
Unless, of course the sufferer happens to be
The passenger in the next seat (adjacent to me)
Quaking in their Birkenstocks,
Passing gas, and sweating cobs.

Saturday Sadness

You wanted to come here to show me off
Your symbol of success, transition
Working class no longer, toff
In all opinion, loud derision

So I sit and watch the bald patch
Slow expanding on your head
Your eyes both glued to latest gadget
Showing off your wealth instead

I sip my coffee, not as silent
As the trophy WAGs should stay
While strangers’ pallid faces highlight
All you do and all I say

There was a time, almost forgotten
By the one who paid today
I’d make you think and laughing rotten,
Lift your moodiness away.

When shining eyes met laughter lines
Two grins curved freely over cake
And sugar seemed less of a crime
With more forgive and much less take

Impious, I once held your gaze
Without the need for sabotage
Of smart phone: screen of lesser rays
Replaced your smile with time on charge

We sit and comment on our drinks
You read the news in silent thought
I wonder at these forty winks
That hold our lives to what we’ve bought

Daydreamer

Not for me
Such Heathcliff tales
No bodice-ripper
Do I crave

I’ll not succumb
To doe-eyed slave
I thirst for more
Than hero-brave

An aspiration
Of romance
In modern times
Has not much chance

Of blossoming
To fruitful lust
Amid this dance
Of little trust

We feel our way
From bed to desk
And sleep en route
Deprived of rest

So few our moments
And well-spaced
No thunderbolt
Mid rat-filled race

But gaze at fellows
As we pass
Their eyes as cold
And hard as glass

Where nothing tender
Is betrayed
We human souls
Are yet afraid

The loneliness
That seeps through cracks
Means even couples
Can’t relax

For mated, settled
Set-up well
We miss what first attracts;
The smell

And nostrils flaring
Leave the nest
Searching for
More fun, less rest

What is exotic
Fuels our dreams
Thus life unravels
At the seams

Lost in The City

When all alone and lost at sea
Amidst the suited scowling fray
I picture fields with peace for me
And trees to keep them all at bay.
I pass them by, these blinkered hordes
And wonder at them as I go
Who register a life, of course,
But have no wish to watch it grow.
Their view of man disturbs me so
That I confess myself amazed.
They barely see me as I go
And hurry in their daily daze.
If I were dressed as prince, or king,
Rather than humble pauper here
They’d scramble fast to kiss my ring
Instead, they wish I’d disappear.
I don’t fit in here, never could.
Nor see I why I should or would
Be wishing such a life for me
As suited, booted, clonedly
They all appear to want to lead.
And barely living, stumble forth,
Motivation: only greed
And what the Joneses have, of course.