Ode to Joeys


On a roll and loose
around the gills,
you sway past the bouncers
chatting up distracted tourists,
to ascend into a landscape of mirrors
where your felafel stains
catch on the gold handrails,
and your glazed outlook
finds a mutual home.
A string of early 80s disco hits
cut with Hendrix out-takes
jingles the crowd into a higher art.
You manage a style
and frame it with a cigarette,
as the ashtray collects
what's left of a bad line,
a chance blown by a cheap shirt. 
Beneath the ruin of a broken mirror ball
your sense of decay kicks in to Blue Monday.
You ooze across the chequered pit
like a cocktail of expensive stuff
spilling into the night
with your dreams, your delusions.
Dry ice rises
to embrace you,
like that dark occasion
two months before
when you swore never to ...
But a drink in the heart of Fitzroy St
is worth a six pack in the soul of Elwood.
It's not who you are
with, were or could be.
At Joeys you are constantly 
somebody's affectionate kitten
or dawn appetiser.

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