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.

I'll Sing When I'm Full Again.

I pull up in the Getz and

get Ian to pour me a whiskey

it's where I got a taste for it, after all.

I don't want ice,

just a quick hit of dutch courage.

He gives me too much change,

and later doesn't charge at all.

He doesn't smile much,

Ian,

not at me, anyhow

but his face suggests that he does know how

it's all lined and crinkled

in a friendly

kind of way.

It's the kind of bar

that's cozy

even when there's just

a solitary man cuddling up to a coopers pale

on the counter top

and it's always filled with music.

Tonight, I try my hardest,

even though I'm filled with something else

and the back of my throat

feels like it's been trampled

by the footsteps

of the three thousand people who have

grabbed and pushed

and begrudgingly accepted the falseness of my smile

when that's all that I can give.

My croak is amplified.

My fingers fumble.

I fuck up.

I even impersonate Susan Boyle.

For fucks sake.

I'm out before midnight

leaving ladies

fading into the night's dark crevices.

With whiskey on my breath

and six hours before sunrise

I arrive home

accompanied by the sounds

of the inner suburbs

the rattle of the last trams

the barman across the road stubbing out

his last cigarette.

Six hours til sunrise

six hours to sleep in the cool dark calm

before heat and hellish hectic masses

swarm and rush

grabbing and pushing,

pulling from these clumsy fingers

that which they believe themselves to be

entitled to.

Later I'll put them to better use,

these fingers

that fuck up.

Later there'll be music,

as soon as I'm full again

I'll fill the air

in the cool dark calm

clumsy fingers

prising notes one at a time

from six strings of steel

trying to spell out

the things I'm unable

to

not feel.

Today

Today,
my tongue is sandpaper,
thick

scratching
the dry
insides of my mouth

searching
for the right words
to offer my calloused fingertips

so that they may
play with them

mold them to the tune
that has come
so easily

the rain has washed away
coherence

it's down there in the drain,
it must be

otherwise where else
could it have gone?

I'd get down
on my hands and knees to look,
but I don't want to get my jeans dirty.

The Chorus Is Easy, It Goes Like This