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.