Writing is not always art, it’s not art when the topic is about politics. How on earth can a man of politics calls himself an artist except for the master of bullshitting art? Buttering and stabbing sums most of the politics men. They just spread hatred and try to make a living by making up problems that isn’t there to feed on the anger of the brainwashed. Media is the best seller of the art of bullshit.
An bullshitter, I mean a politician and a writer … I mean “An Artist” sat in the back of a cafe waiting for an inspiration to come. Have I mentioned that he’s a poet? It’s just a title for he cares about balance and rhyming more than the overflow of emotions that a true poet should have. Poets are known for their sweet hearts but sadly the ones who get famous are mostly machines.
He ordered his drink, watched the young girls with their detailed orders and their faces expressions that show the emptiness in their heads along with their empty conversations, bragging, fake compliments and the love of gossip. “A generation of idiots with smart phones … It’s exactly what the world needs … Isn’t it marvellous how the world produces burdens and then uses copy and paste?
Ahhh, what a lovely lady sitting in front of me … So young and precious. Those innocent eyes took me off my feet, those lavish lips are like the rich cream on those rosy cheeks of cake and it’s a shame that those lips are going to waste when their sweetness melts in that bitter coffee … I’m not even sure who is drinking who … This is exactly what I need; something new to carry me away rather than my usual cup.”
The girl couldn’t help but notice that pathetic old man who is trying to renew his youth by forcing an eye contact so hard just to trigger his fingertips. He kept looking at her and words came out like bullets. He was amazed by her stunning beauty that rhymes in harmony with English tea. He moved his eyes right and left to see if that Mona Lisa smile would follow him back.
“All I wanted was to enjoy myself … To come here and feel carried away by my senses to the heaven of clouds that my warm drink would make. I came to excite my taste buds with the taste of good life and to smell the freshly brewed coffee beans mixed with the smell of wood and a touch of lavender with hints of cinnamon and to stir the cream in my coffee and watch them blend like colours would on a painting and to pour the milk generously like a god would pour rain on the thirsty and to see that caramel sauce fall delicately and melt in the meeting of her new lover. All I had is a disturbance of creepy eyeballs fixed still on me like a cold end of a gun placed right in my forehead.”