Tried to climb the beanstalk...

new Gingers Gentlemen Shoe Boutique in Brisbane.

shop 7/65 James st Fortitude Valley 4006

art work: Marty Baptist.

poetry is just the evidence of life,

if your life is

burning well,

poetry is just the ash.

Leonard Cohen

city cat...

Brisbane store.

my sweet lord

what time's your funeral?

sam james...

like that guy you always want around....

17th floor balcony,

living the dream if it wasnt such a nightmare...

hipstamatic is lame and a little bit of cheating, but it makes me take a lot more photos.

therefore im sticking with it.

living in Brisbane for a month whilst I open a new store.

new places and faces....

bar stool.

each day and each night were

about the same.

the bartender let me in at

5 a.m.

I had to listen to his stories

as he mopped the place up

and got things

ready

but the drinks were free

until 7 a.m. when the bar

opened.

the 7 a.m. crowd was a

good one,

I could usually work them

for some drinks

but by 8.15 a.m. there were

few patrons left.

I had to nurse my drinks

and wait.

I used the few coins I had

to keep the drinks slowly

arriving.

the painful time came

when I ran out of

coin.

the trick was to never

empty your glass.

it was a rule: as long as

you had something in

your glass you

stayed.

sometimes the time

really bludgeoned

me

and my damned

tongue was hanging

out too.

at noon a few

more would drift in,

they all knew

me.

I put on a good

late night

show-

wild sentences of

gibberish,

fist fights,

even a few profound

statements,

and the other times

I had money

I bought for

everybody.

I was the nut.

the good guy.

the bad

guy.

but in the daylight

hours I had

no zip.

those were the

hard hours.

I had to milk those drab suckers

for drinks.

one way or the other

I got them,

ran errands,

got a little

coin.

as the afternoon

went toward

evening

things began to

get better,

I got drunker,

more inventive,

more interesting,

it got into party

time,

good luck

time.

and the nights

were great.

drinks arived

before me

and I had no

idea where they

had

come

from.

sometimes the

nights and the days

got mixed up.

I seemed to be

sitting in daylight

and then it was

dark all at once,

or it worked the other way around,

it was dark

and in the next

moment

it was daylight.

I once asked the

bartender, "hey,

Jim, did you notice

that it was dark

and now the sun

is shining!

isnt that strange?"

"no," he answered

"you went to your

room and then came

back again."

at times i resented

my role.

the patrons were

hardly intellectual,

there was a lifeless

and satisfied deadness

about them

and yet I had to

depend upon their

whims.

I was on

that bar stool for

3 years from 5 a.m.

to 2 a.m.

I must have slept

while I drank.

I believe that I was

trying to kill myself

with drink and

back alley

brawls

but it wasn't

working.

my greatest problem

were my toenails

which I never

cut

and which pained

me in my

shoes.

but eventually

they broke off

or the whole

nail would fall

off

leaving that

tender flesh

plus

a few split

lips,

mangled fingers,

lumps on the

knee

from falling.

and that was the

extent

of

it.

I was evicted from

room after room

but always managed

to find

another.

it was as good a

life as I could

eke out.

I was avoiding

becoming ensnared

in a common

manner

of living.

I truly believed

that this was

important to me

when everything

else was

not.

and the one

stool was

mine.

the one down

at the end of

the bar.

it was all that

I owned.

it was all that

I needed.

there was no

other man

I preferred to be

or no

other way that

I preferred.

I was at the

peak of my

courage,

sitting there

waiting for

the next

drink.

do you see

what I

mean?

Charles Bukowski

D Berls

stolen from www.saintendsjournal.blogspot.com

cause I love it....

Odell
epiclylaterd