Desperately Beaten Froth Hope

Hey, when a man turns bad
it`s a well known fact
you don`t go giving him a bucket of compliments
behind his back
you don`t go laying traps for him
you cannot detect his scent
you cannot set your dogs on him
they won`t go where he went

Though his eyes may have been scored out
and his face is full of pits
He's bloodless, still rides for you
and he`s grating at the bit
Oh

When a man turns bad
you don`t want to know a thing
you can see it in the way that his hand shakes
as he pours himself a drink
he won`t take pleasure giving you the time of day
can`t walk in a straight line
just takes him a shot of bitumen
take a shot of turpentine
Oh

When a man turns bad
you can smell it on his breath
He has to fix himself up one in the morning
just to get him out of bed

When a man turns bad
it`s written on his wrists
gets a sudden fidgetty urge to kiss you baby
but he`s eating away at his lips

When a man turns bad
he don`t want no friendly advice
phone off the hook, not available for comment
better punch out the lights, sugar and spice, now

When a man turns bad
when a man turns bad
when a man turns bad
You can tell by his hair
he looks like he`s looking at a crack in the ceiling
or a nameless point somewhere
and in fact he`s seeing him a vision
in fact it`s a kingdom somewhere
where the lamb lies down with the rabid dog
and the dog don`t care

When a man turns bad
you can see it in his stare
looks like he`s looking at a crack in the ceiling
or just a nameless point in the air
in fact he`s seeing a vision
in the back of the kingdom somewhere
well the lamb lies down with the dog
and the dog doesn`t care

In fact he`s seeing a vision
in fact it`s a kingdom somewhere
where the lamb lies down with the rabid dog
and the rabid dog he don`t care

When a man turns bad
it`s a well known fact
you don`t go giving him a bucket of compliments
behind his back
you don`t go laying traps for him
you cannot detect his scent
you cannot set your dogs on him
they won`t go where he went
they won`t go where he went
they won`t go where he went

David McComb, The Triffids.

In the pines, in the pines, in the aftermath of our distant lives, a million miles from the froth that was Hollywood and ancient distances from the centre of things. We were so moved, it was such a splendid thing; and the compliments did flow and the world did turn on its axis. One of the city's most famous bars, Barons, has closed down; the days when our bodies could stand the pace and there was nowhere else to be but our bar, our cafe, our universe; and we draped our laughter and cynicism across the footpaths; you'd look pretty in a dress, the old drag queen said, trailing her fingers across my yet to be shaven face.

And the room I lived in, next to the incinerator, cheap because of the hole in the window, dark because I had painted the roof black with red splotches; the budgies living out there lives in the corner; the Frenchman, handsome I suppose, they all were, who came and had his way; and the evolving circumstance of everything: I couldn't stand it anymore. I misted up immediately at the first orchestral wave: this our lives, these our desperately loved songs; we were so moved; so much of our lives had passed unlived; our minds in neutral, the television always on in the corner, distracting us from any real thought. And at the end, we knew we were failures, we knew we were on the run, we knew that our lives operated not just outside the law, but outside decency. The only fruit was madness and too many had gone. I wanted desperately to be liked; and spoke to no one. How did that work?

The egg dribbled down his chin. This one's gone to God, we can only be kind. The full days, in the intervening years between the flash of youthful hope and the decay of middle years, and the death from liver disease, an old junkie in Calcutta. You used to be a journalist? the man asked, in disbelief. Generations of junkies had died here; they would say anything. They had all wanted to be something; they all made up stories of their past achievements, to illuminate their present decay, to pretend to have been something, someone. The French abandoned themselves on the subcontinent; the British, less often but often enough, the Americans never. He had driven through these very same streets on the back of a motorbike across the Calcutta's famous Howrah bridge, where we used to buy smoko from the vendors in the early hours; and this world was ours in this unique place. Of all the places he had been, he had chosen here to die; his head full of memories and his heart full of grief; and the smack not working as his body ceased to function. Those dawns, so long ago, he had never been happy, but, but... It had all been such an adventure. So much he had written, to so little end.

THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.boudist.com/archive/2007/10/24/last_drinks_at_barons.php

Last Drinks At Baron's

Like many of the character rich old joints in the Cross it's being demolished to make way for a new multi storey development.

I'm sure most Sydney drinkers would have some hazy memories of a night spent surfing the lounges of the dimly lit bar.

I remember being taken there as a 17 year old, sipping Midori Illusions with my workmates and trying to learn backgammon. On another night I recall being asked to leave once dawn hit after spending the night canoodling with my first girlfriend. This was before the times you needed to buy some garlic bread downstairs in order to drink upstairs.

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