Breakfast - Jam Baxter

Where are we?

My master the Magician in Black will see you now

In a café built high atop the edge of all morning

Cream uncoiling in the coffee she’s pouring

Aromatic mind ground down to the granules

Pebble dashed face like a crude child’s drawing

The same preamble

The old exit sign that glows green almost seems supernatural

The phone rings she presses cancel

And sinks back tied to an anchor entangled

Unless her dream steam rolls from stage fright

Then he ain’t gonna' fill the chair opposite and seem real

Fate he sealed by the same logic

That says «burn this whole place down for a free meal»

Unless time pays for seven year ransom

Disease ain’t gonna spare one dead relative

In that case the rums still on offer next door

A discounted flush for a handful of sedatives

With a facial expression that could paint a whole dead flooded city on the back

of any retina

In two seconds

Lips like a novel that’s barely worth reading

Eyes like abused tenants

Oil covered seagulls rife in the squelch of quick muttered pleasantry

The view outside was that long smashed ant farm

Buried in a year seven science class memory

I smiled

She looked up once

And mouthed the words «FUCK YOU» with all sincerity

My master the Magician in Black will see you now

I guess he didn’t see the menagerie of animals

Flapping in the strobe lit cover to the left

Or the tentacles creeping from the apron of the waitress

Dipped in the grease tank

Strangling the chef

The tiny faced business man

With a mug that demands every lost shred of laughter in the air

With the mass like spit balls pasting his pale skin

Leaving a white mulch glued to a chair

The child spewing acid in the sky like a lime green Las Vegas fountain

The moneys on red

The futures on black

Wheel spinning in reverse

The house wins your scalp

Flies nest in the neck

That frozen old man with the thick spittle waterfall drowning his eggs in saliva

Salmon re-spawn in his mouth bare swipe at the hatch stains

He wipes at his jaw like its minor

The wall behind crumbles

A man within a Hi-Vis impales every hard hatted goon on his tusk

Leaving the city half built gaping up

As vines crush cranes in the frost smothered dusk

That creamy eyed sloth, with loose skin befitting of an oversized gimp mask

Rabbit holes hidden in the fold of his brow

Lead to a cave where his devils all swing dance

I saw it all over breakfast

Opposite that pug-faced empress

Sour little foul-mouthed temptress

I paid up and walked out restless