Coffee, coffee, coffee s'more.
Walking into coffeeshops while there's dancing on floors, they spin they waltz they tango into the rooms. The rooms, the rooms, divided in two. One half for the slow ones and one half for the fast. When the waiter comes, he comes on skates, zipping by the pairs, the pairs, the pairs of dancers, jazzing into the night. The night swells with the clouds that are haunting the moon, that prowl the sky, that pounce on flocks of geese escaping to warmer pastures.
The coffee they serve, the cups it comes in. The sugar, the cream, my how they scream. They scream out on the patio, banging on the windows. 'Let us in, let us in, we demand the atmosphere!' But bang as they might and they may bang all they want, but the bouncer demands to see their invites and lets no one by who isn't allowed.
And the dancers, they dance and the drinkers, they drink. Soft and slow is some of the music, loud and thumping is the rest of the tunes.
A lady in white, all willowy and pale is perched at her stool in the hippest corner of the coolest room of the entire joint. See her sip, see her puff. She sips only the darkest brew, blacker than the souls of Nazis, of the skins of Moors, of the hair of the Japanese. She puffs only the finest 'bacca, the weed that burns a shimmering electric blue like no other plant. Is she sexy?, they wonder, is she sublime?, is she modeling for Jaques DuBois, the bisexual painter from o'er the ocean? God, the gossip she gathers, the words she inspires and maybe the paint the splatters across the canvas of the simmering New Cubist master?
Her name, I can only imagine. A Grace, perhaps, or Serenity is better. Opal or Ruby? Ivy or Rose? All the names there are, she is, and better than that. She's better off nameless, for only the coporeal has names. Ethereal she is, and'll remain, no matter her wishes...
At the after party with the people I know, gorging on cheeseburgers that flicker and flitter with the shaky pale fluorescent blub in a greasy diner with greasy spoons and a napping waitress.
The coffee they serve, the cups it comes in. The sugar, the cream, my how they scream. They scream out on the patio, banging on the windows. 'Let us in, let us in, we demand the atmosphere!' But bang as they might and they may bang all they want, but the bouncer demands to see their invites and lets no one by who isn't allowed.
And the dancers, they dance and the drinkers, they drink. Soft and slow is some of the music, loud and thumping is the rest of the tunes.
A lady in white, all willowy and pale is perched at her stool in the hippest corner of the coolest room of the entire joint. See her sip, see her puff. She sips only the darkest brew, blacker than the souls of Nazis, of the skins of Moors, of the hair of the Japanese. She puffs only the finest 'bacca, the weed that burns a shimmering electric blue like no other plant. Is she sexy?, they wonder, is she sublime?, is she modeling for Jaques DuBois, the bisexual painter from o'er the ocean? God, the gossip she gathers, the words she inspires and maybe the paint the splatters across the canvas of the simmering New Cubist master?
Her name, I can only imagine. A Grace, perhaps, or Serenity is better. Opal or Ruby? Ivy or Rose? All the names there are, she is, and better than that. She's better off nameless, for only the coporeal has names. Ethereal she is, and'll remain, no matter her wishes...
At the after party with the people I know, gorging on cheeseburgers that flicker and flitter with the shaky pale fluorescent blub in a greasy diner with greasy spoons and a napping waitress.