Once In A Blue Moon

Midnight makes me
a loose
cannon
and the hand
of gin
has painted me happily
pink and joyful

Hemingway's hiding
beneath my bed
and once
in a blue moon
he waits for me in vain

while I'm wrapped up
in another's
arms
waiting for morning
waiting for something
waiting to know the appropriate move
I should know the appropriate move
by now, right?

But
I don't

I only know that I can't give up these vices
without the fear of being boring
wordless
lining up glasses full of
false idols

wanting to be
at the very least
the mistake you could learn from

I'd do that for you

the rain gives a staning ovation

we don't deserve it
 I don't
I'm reprising the role
it's autopilot, really
I know the lines
the blocking is stale
unspontaneous

only fear keeps
my glass full

my mouth shut
fleeing
with sunlight

and all my clothes,
hopefully.

Once in a blue moon
fear and
false idols align

and the best I can hope for
is that I've got
all
my
clothes. 

Empty Beer Bottle Dreams

Towels that attack in the breeze
empty beer bottle dreams
and sweet sunshine promises
peeping through the trees.

I've got a horrible snorty laugh
which escapes
in an all too familliar scene
and those that don't get the joke
laugh anyway

but the joke's on me,
me
and my empty beer bottle dreams

and those things that attack
in the soft summer breeze.

Shoe String Fries, And Other Small Mercies

So I'm sitting

slouched

in a corner

glaring at the world over the top of my

whiskey,

waiting

(watch out guys,

I have a steak knife)

I start tapping away

and realise

that's

how a lot of things start.

Not with steak knives

but with a drink in my hand

and a

bad

attitude

(my teachers always told me,

they were right,

you know,

I guess

some things never change)

I'll order another

(nowhere to be

nothing to do

that can't wait 'til

tomorrow,

next week,

after everything's

over)

I'll sit here

poking a piece of flesh

whiskey breath

trying not to glare

those frown lines

are deep enough

eyes

flicking between

two screens.

It's always the best way to spend

money you wish you never had to earn

nights you

wish you could remember

whiskey breath

you know you'll probably forget

those things you had to do

they can wait

anyway.

Everything fades.

the day

the faces

and you're thankful

for shoe string fries

and other small mercies

(the fact you can never remember

small mercies)

One drink to remember

two to forget

three

and that's when it starts to get fun

let's see if we can find the next thing

you'll eventually

wish had never begun.

Slouched over a fork full of

shoe string fries

and small mercies

and the whiskey the barman

promised

would be smooth and smokey

it's a small mercy there are only

meters to shuffle

in shoes that don't match

yep,

small mercies

it's wednesday and we're

more than half way there

so cheer up

drink up

shuffle on home and be thankful

that at least there are an abundance

of

small

mercies.

A Little Bar. Lygon St, Brunswick East

I'm drinking a brandy and dry

in the window

of a little bar on Lygon St

where everything seems to be

made out of wood.

I feel sort of

caught

in the middle

neither here nor there

pretending to read a magazine

while the barman eyes me off

suspiciously.

Vague and slow

these 60 hours have made me feel

as many years old

and have clearly affected my drinking habits.

The breeze feels better

than anything that has ever

pressed up against my face before.

Heavenly.

I've forgotten that it's Sunday

slow and vague and sleepy

(now I'm repeating myself)

Fuck,

I've forgotten that I don't believe

in Heaven.

Now that I think of it

a bar in Brunswick East

wouldn't be a bad place

to spend eternity

though something about it

smacks of purgatory

with the number 8 tram shuddering past

in each direction

a destination

that doesn't really appeal.

Neither here nor there

just somewhere in the middle

somewhere highly flammable

with feet that feel like

they're already on fire.

I'm talking to myself

as the ice melts

then the phone vibrates

and we cut to the alternate ending,

where I'm caught between the

shy and handsome greying barman

and an inattentive lover

neither here nor there

a special kind of purgatory

in a bar in Brunswick East.

But

this isn't the directors cut, people.

It's just Russ

and the he's on his way back

to freshly polished floors

with ingredients for Tacos

and right now,

that kinda sounds

like heaven to me.

December

We're drinking
sherry out of egg cups
and listening to Taylor Swift
turned up too loud

she's going back to December

we're going back to the time when
life was
simple
like these lyrics
this melody

we sing along
to recapture
youth
and all its unfulfilled promises.

Words III (The Brunswick St Bookstore, Saturday Night)

I'm walking home
in the rain
furtively clutching
my paper bag

silently
clamouring
for its
intoxicating
contents.

It's Saturday night
and Brunswick St
is filling up
with the
thirsty
the hungry
those wanting
to consume

and I can't wait to get home,

to slip between the sheets
and drink in the
words
words
words.