Bad Faith

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That year she was reading Sartre, 
We would sit in the cafe beside her university
And watch the waiters,
She’d make judgements on their core being
Saying their efficiency 
Was an articulation of bad faith.
"Yes but the service is excellent." I’d say.
Outside even the tramps looked employed,
Stripping the bins and coin slots 
With the swiftness of assembly line workers,
Only the students looked languorous
Sat in flocks, chatting idle in the sun.
At night their terrible music played down the hall.
I’d find myself unable to concentrate,
Hesitating above her impeccable body, 
Increasingly aware of my inauthenticity,
Bad faith playing in my bones  
Like a defective dance.
I took to sitting in cafes alone then.
While later she married an architect 
And said she was happy.
It always bothered me what lie it was
She finally managed to accept.

◄ Rites Of Spring

Easter Poem ►


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Greg Freeman

Thu 3rd Feb 2011 07:47

Fine pay-off line, Tom, and an intelligent and witty poem, even if it is recognised as such by someone who dropped out of philosophy at university. For some reason your poem got me whistling tunes by Peter Sarstedt and Al Stewart. Except I can't really whistle.

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Ann Foxglove

Tue 1st Feb 2011 03:31

I always really like your poems, and the drawings too. I am so glad you seem to be on here more lately than you used to be. Shame you posted this almost at the last minute of January cos not so many people will read it - well, I hope they do! x

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Chris Dawson

Tue 1st Feb 2011 00:20

Really interesting writing Tom, vivid images that tell a complete story of a life. I particularly like the last stanza.
Do you paint the illustrations too?

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