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Bugger this, I’m walking to the café & bar

 

Bugger this, I’m walking to the café & bar

 

One.

 

Isolated at home

The sound of the shooting range –

Country living

 

--

 

I can’t think

The blood in my brain

Polyrhythm out of sync

With the pistol shooter

 

--

 

The constant

Soundtrack –

Gunshots

 

--

 

Why come to the countryside

If you’re just gonna make noise?!

 

--

 

Bugger this, I’m walking to the café & bar

 

--

 

 

Two.

 

Over the course of 2 & ½ hours I ordered:

An espresso

A sparkling water

Plenty of tap water

A potato, red onion & olive tapenade focaccia

& two slow glasses of rose

 

A good chat with the bar

 

& wrote some poetry

 

Like the Paris Dome Café in the 1920s

 

I was born for this

 

(Anyway, wait for the chemical progression)

 

--

 

 

Three.

 

(Coffee & sparkling water)

 

In 2008

A couple of months before my mental breakdown

I was depressed

But always polite (except to bigots)

I went into the ‘Greasy Spoon’

As I did for Saturday breakfasts

With a similarly sized notebook & pen as this

& wrote a desperate poem/silent psychodrama

I’m abridging:

“Fuck Cunt Fuck Cunt Cunt Fuck Fuck Cunt,” it went

All down & across the page

Marks of my despair & brokenness

 

Then I accidentally left my notebook behind!

I never asked for it back

& I never knew whether it was read/registered

Whose impression of a ‘nice, educated Australian man’

Against reading of the darkness of his soul

Not putting two & two together

That there is a darkness in everybody’s soul

An uncomfortable mutual recognition

The Lewisham reserve of the café owners

Never let me know

I went back next week

For a baked potato & cup of tea for breakfast

Lovely

& I have no idea what I perceived

& what looks were passed between us

I may have deduced a slight stiffening

Or I may have just been paranoid

As I say

I was headed for a complete psychotic breakdown

 

--

 

 

Four.

 

(Water)

 

I heard a highly respectable man

Mutter under his breath (about something mysterious to me):

“Marijuana”

 

--

 

 

Five.

 

(Wine)

 

Why do I fear ‘Plantation Rum’ soon changing its name

To something innocuous?

Because I thought they were trippin

The first time I saw it

It was because no other white people in the places I drank at had snagged on it

 

Without attunement to history, to life

Without READING LIFE

Blocked out to life with headphones & devices

We as a nation

Never get beyond remedial teaching to the herd

 

(As Kev Carmody says “it’s kindergarten stuff!”

 

--

 

 

Six.

 

‘Simpler Times’

 

Two people outside meet at the pedestrian crossing

For a lighting of their cigarettes from the one lighter

They have a bit of a yarn while they cross

All smiles & wellwishes

& then off to their different destinations

As easy as love

As easy as God

 

--

 

 

Seven.

 

Me sober –

Life is hard

 

Me after two drinks –

Life is golden

 

Me after many drinks –

Life is Francis Bacon

 

(Repeat most days)

 

--

 

 

Eight.

 

(Walking home)

 

To the Global Elites,

Quite simply:

OVERPAID!

Cough it up son

You’ve had your go

 

--

 

 

Nine.

 

(Home again)

 

Coz I sure as hell can’t afford her

As a bluesman I’ll be a backdoor man

For the woman in fur & pearls

 

--

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

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