The snap-shot flash of over-head tram-wires
catches a dark silhouette in the swinging door
of any-pub Melbourne.
A bartender perches on a backless stool
cuffs turned, lightly starched, slightly stained
his palms laid flat on the cool bar top
as he examines the cartography of scars.
"So, what'll it be?"
"Bacardi, with fresh lime & please,
spare me the glib advertising anecdotes."
Bar-tender meets bar-tender,
as is bound to occur sooner or later,
with round the clock alcohol servants
plying a once-honourable trade
in a society of haves & have-nots.
The service is swift, brimful rock-glass
replete & sparkling:
ice, post-mix, garnish & 27mls of white rum
made to look like a generous over-pour.
A 10% tip later, with the unspoken exchange of respect
the tired barman settles in for the lonely hour.
In the inner city bar, the wall-flowers
take our hero's attention by storm
a summer's fashions: scarlet letters
paint the tongue with witticisms unyielding
Décor is going retro in the trendy inner-city urban gin-joint.
Industrial floors with designer scuff marks are in:
foul-smelling, beer-rotten oiled woodwork is definitely out.
The beer-wars linger like neon-coloured ink-stains
on contemporary culture
a hang-over of sport, politics & parochialism.
A new breed of advertising splashes sexy slogans,
images of stark clarity promoting youth
& ever-lasting beauty in a scene of seediness.
The cocktail lounge reigns supreme
in a splurge of colourful mayhem,
a gentle sobriquet of culture grasping at sophistication,
yet coming up with an ashtray full
of designer cigarette butts.
Artwork adorns the walls
reflecting pop-culture in a post-modern irrelevance,
catching the passing eye & fleeting thoughts are unspoken,
unwritten, as though graffiti has become passé.
The off-duty juice-jockey
treads the fine-line of crowded solitude,
whether lost in the ambiguities of modern life,
or floating at the bottom of his last drink.
He will endure the night, inuring himself against
the drunken banter, engaging a cowboy attitude,
as though the saloon is gonna bust up
in a hail of bottles, stools & arrogance.
It's a subtle kind of romance, bitter-sweet,
yet without the ineptitude of unrequited love.
just a small hope for an upturn of fortunes,
none-too-futile offerings to the patron-saint
of scoundrels, vigilantes, star-struck fools
& bar-tenders everywhere.
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