Caramel Macchiato

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.”

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La Maison Des Acteurs Cafe

Through all of these tables, I sat on that one. This chair is the oldest, so it is the wisest. Dear chair, I wonder how many stories have you carried? How much have you suffered and endured to get these wounds on that torn skin of yours? I love the wrinkles on your face, it complements your grey hair. Oh here comes the Asian waiter who greets me with a smile that never gets old. Oh, the way that six-fingered virtuoso showers my cake with chocolate exhilarates me.

What I love about cafes is that the people change everyday but it’s almost the same. That leaning tower of Pisa is all over his lady whom he loves deeply and as she sips the goodness of life he recites poetry to the beauty of her eyes. The old man secludes himself in the corner and has a glass of warm milk. The vulgar man who mistreats my friend is always here in different vessels. The boys who come in with rolling eyes examine the place as if it were a crime scene.

What if I opened my third eye? Would I see their real stories? Their secrets perhaps? Is there a murderer? A thief? If only it were true … I bit most of them are calculus teachers. What is that on the front page? A new bomb has exploded on the east side? Rich, please bring me today’s newspaper … Never mind I’ll get it myself. I pulled out the rolled one thirsty for fresh news and before I knew it a gun fell on the ground with a bang that scattered them like cockroaches. My favourite cafe is now closed for investigation.