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  You are @ HomeAdults Poetry


Source: Adults

Author: jonny graham

Title: Lemon Souffle.

The evening went slow.
The night flew, in fact is flying.
So much so that it's almost time
for the sun to rise
and light up proceedings.
Here outside, pre-dawn, my backyard,
me alone, the proverbial early riser.
First light, spilling weak, through the branches,
of the walnut tree.
The last bat cruises by,
like a little leather glider.

Me outside, at daft-o-clock,
drinking neat arabica
and breathing in other peoples
coma exhalations.
A very occasional early car
passes on the street nearby,
and I am aware of solitude
and it's power of amplification.

through the sliding glass,
satellite news is in nearly silent mode,
turned way down low.
Streaming images, of third-world slums,
the death of some pop-star,
and Taliban rebels, brandishing Russian guns.
I changed it some time ago,
from the history channel,
where it was all
Hitler and Napoleon this,
Darwin and Hawkinge that,
and various other conflagrations.
Mind-numbing stuff for insomniacs.
Twenty-four seven,
media saturation.

Who, in the name of Christ,
watches that stuff anyway ?
Napoleons love life,
Hitlers bunker,
the killing fields of the Khmer Rouge,
the theorising of Darwin,
the old battles and the torture,
new unearthed footage,
never-before seen,
some of it in colour.
Non-stop, in a repeat loop,
round the clock,
for armchair fools
who lack the ambition
to rise up and make their lives
enriched and fuller.

That reminds me,
of something the other day,
outside a cafe, in my town, called the Lemon Souffle.
There was this big sun-reddened guy,
dressed in Gok Wan heart-attack shorts,
and totally unnecessary sunglasses,
nursing a grande latte, and an obvious hangover,
all alone at a shady table.
He's trying to read a book,
and simultaneously look cool, like ice.
When he came in five minutes ago,
he opened the door to the Lemon Souffle,
like it was wired up
to a booby-trap device.

So when I left,
I just had to look,
had to see what he was reading.
Mein Kampf, the quintessential diatribe.
Lord save us,
there is just no escape.
That's why I'm stood here now,
in the pre-dawn.
Later, when it's light,
I'll cut the grass,
if my soul ever stops bleeding.

Published on writebuzz®: Adults > Poetry

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