a poem inspired by a 12 kr cup of coffee

A Poem inspired by having a 12 kr coffee while reading David Mamet's Writing in Restaurants 1986 Coffee, yeah, the brown stuff that after drinking one, realises its not quite enough, then one gets to thinking about poetry and the heart beat, tum, tum, tim, oh yeah coffee, sound of the tanoy: intercity to, platform number blah blah, is it Purgatory? This state of wanting to write in a station restaurant without a motive, just writing, shooting the breeze with A4 photocopy paper on a Formica table with nothing except a David Mamet book, and the connection, the retraction of what was written, Plotinus never went through his stuff twice, and I can fully appreciate this as it gets me off the hook, leave the poem on the edge.. of the table, Dansk radio in the ear piece, Kim Larsen old frog mouth, Big Fat Whitesnake, golden oldies, what's the goal, where is the depth, the metre, does it come upon you later, touch you on the shoulder when least expecting it, when you are reading in the free newspaper, metro express, a supernova exploded last September, how come no one ever told me about it? I mean who wants to know about the neighbour in the refrigerator, the mowed down kids in Sierra Leone, the the the, who wants to know, when a fucking supernova exploded out there, a few thousand light years I guess, like the Old Believers who still have to hear of Lenin, maybe we'll catch up, and it all kind of puts us, humanity, into shards of insignificance, then you recuperate from the shock of this astrophysical death, With a sip of coffee, now resisting, as you must keep it, it's an art, being able to have one cup of coffee in a city when everyone wants your table, so how does it go, the song of life, nothing like, remotely, a little piece of remembrance, back into the recess of your reading, in Hereford Art College of all places, where D.M. Thomas of White Hotel fame read Pushkin, you dust off the names dropping onto the cafe floor, Onegin walks out in disgust, so does Lorca, Cervantes, and Coombes in his literary criticism told you not to borrow from the thirties, none of those pylons and forced associations, but Auden god damn him was at Colwall, wrote of Malvern, And you wanted to see through with back of MAD magazine x-ray vision glasses King Arthur, and he, told you, no further, it was all done before, you roll up those metaphors and stuff them in the coffee, and failed your O level literature as a consequence.