The Prufrock Cafe

I am at a coffee shop at 8 am on a Sunday morning and was digging through a batch of unpublished old blog posts. There was a reason why they were unpublished, and it is exactly because of those reasons that makes them so funny. So here they are. The originals, unmarred and unedited.


 

Inspired by quotes taken from the “Love song of Alfred J. Prufrock ” by T.S. Eliot. I just felt compelled to write a poem about hipsters. Ahem, excuse the abominable speech pattern. I am much obliged to sound contrived for you and for this poem.

And there will be time
Yes, there will be time
for coffee cups balanced on kneecaps
and Macbooks spilled upon with hot tea and grand ideas
because only in measured chaos
we choose to sit so desperately alone
anonymity
in a crowded room
media juggernauts and Instagram Icons
sitting together
not together
having a cuppa, brandishing
the newest trend of wearing potato chips in their braids and tin cans as earrings.
Aspiring
Soul-searching
Rewriting
If you ask a hipster
one is always in the throes of the middle Sea.
And there will be time
yes there will be time
because the only way to enjoy a coffee shop
is leisurely
and furiously at work
predisposed to compose
in the stillness
of a lunch rush tragedy
From the room the people come and go
still talking of Michelangelo
Only now they use their blogs.

I guess we haven’t come much farther from Eliot after at all.
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