Glebe. Night. Beer. Bedlam.
The bar that sells records is open and lively.
Lust for garlic slaked, we enter:
exchange banter with a sex-wounded
waitress and get incorrect change
from a fifty for two bourbons
on ice. Steep wooden stairs
into a small room bleeding
music. A waistcoated guitarist
with long silver hair plays Hendrix
B-sides. It works, it hurts, it dumps us
on a rock face; a fire hose, a geyser.
Green profusions of light. An upsurge
of infatuated violence. Cyclonic,
euphoric, we slide like stormwater
back to the street which takes us, by way
of another pub to his squalid bedsit –
a shrine to the decomposition
of hope. Clothes strewn; a grenade
in a charity bin. Dark leaves frame
a balcony where I puke through the bars
in a moment like beauty as he watches;
sips his drink. We sleep on a bed
of loose change, chinking as we
undulate. A rain-swell moistens
the dawn. Consciousness paused. Of all
the world’s places, I am here.
Reality more baffling
than dreams.

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