A strange little stream of conciousness piece I did last night and this morning.

Black Coffee

I stumbled out of the house, my rage departing uneasily
And crashed through three doors to the bicycle I didn't remember
I climbed across it and pedalled fiercely, but with little conviction
I'd said I was going for coffee, but I wasn't sure where I really wanted to go
Away, but nowhere more specific

I swerved wantonly across Shattuck, wondering if it would be better to be hit
By one of the multicoloured blurs flashing past, indifferent
To all but the lights that dictated their movements
I stumbled off the nameless bicycle, blue and nondescript
It belongs to Mother Dystopia
But I don't blame it for this
It is relatively blameless, and my only escape
I chained it to a post outside the well lit coffee shop
I guess I did want coffee
Black coffee, unchanged by the tears that fell in it as I sat curled in on myself by the window

I swallowed it even though it scalded my throat
And I felt it grip my stomach and cling there
But I didn't care
My last release before I mounted the battered blue bicycle that had brought me here
And let the wind blow through my hair
To carry me I know not where