Saturday, 6 August 2016

Melbourne Bitter (James WF Roberts)

Melbourne Bitter
(James WF Roberts)
Drinking a Schooner of Melbourne Bitter
at the bar of the Penny Black,
Dylan’s on the PA, or can we still call it jukebox?
“Mama take these guns off me,
 I can’t shoot them anymore”

Band’s setting up their gear,
with all the bands on the Brunny tonight
they’ll be lucky to get a good crowd here in.

It’s been a long time since I was here
this early in the day,
Hippie chicks,
backstreet poets,
leather-clad bohemes
With their meagre poems
in corner store bought
notebooks,
they’ve all just written the greatest
poem, that will never be heard.
From Dylan the music jumps to Heroin Girl.
was it an illusion the last time I heard this song here?
dancing on the floor with you
higher than Jupitar
me drunk and horny,
you in a singlet top and jeans
on a winter’s night, young looking
waif-like, everyone thinks
you’re underage,
as we pashed and dry fucked in the middle
of the Everclear song that was written about you
Robert Plant’s mournful serenade
‘Baby, baby,baby I won’t leave you’,
‘when the summer comes along…”
Cliché acoustic Tommy-like strum
before the feedback and the multi-tracking
kicks in.
What I wouldn’t do to get high tonight
stumble down Sydney road
wake up in some woman’s bed,
usually a married woman’s bed
(the desperate, the horny and the bored
flock to me).
I can see why my late old man
used to love this beer,
Melbourne Bitter does taste better
than Vomit Bombs—Victorian Bitter
and Carlton.
Tastes like a beer should
English or European,
two back  Canadian backpackers
two young hot girls
are arguing what Stairway to Heaven is
really about—all I want to say
isn’t it a pair of stockings or pantyhose with
ladders in them?

And the Hurdy-Gurdy man is sad
Fuck Donovan’s a depressive fuck!
I should be stoned
or getting blown listening to
this song,
just for the words
to not make me ache
so much.
Debating whether
to have another schooner
or go home
or just stay out
“here comes the Rolly Polly man singing
songs of love”.
Now John Voight as a Rent Boy’s dancing
in my mind,
‘Coz ‘everybody’s talking at me,
but I don’t hear a word they’re sayin’’.
Get a another Schooner
the American blonde pouring the beer
takes it back after the pour,
“that’s a little too much head”.
I can’t resist,
“I could say something but I shouldn’t”.

She retorts like shot through a gun,
“yes but that would be too easy…”

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