A snappy Sydney night in a slow, sleazy, subculture scene.
Bad boys are at the Barracks, the Beresford has big boofy bears.
It’s a familiar Friday night gathering of their culture and their clans
Where big bear banter is fond and friendly but bad boy talk is mighty mean.
Big bears share affectionate, cuddly cares while bad boys pan probing, predatory stares
As they talk, catch up, cruise, match up and fantasize about late night plans.
The Beresford is a living, lively lantern that is welcoming and warm.
A curious collage of inner-city colours in assorted aged acrylic hues.
Solid stonelike walls peeling with printed posters oversee a weary wooden floor.
Cherished chairs and tired tables stand sculptured amid animated human forms.
Old dogged digger’s drinking hole yarns have given way to bold bohemian news,
As kinky, blinky, winky boys slowly swivel and slink past the door.
Big bears are handy, hearty boofy boys who are biggish boofy blokes.
Some are leather boys with leather toys well beyond my father’s years
Who fizzily tizz with chinking chains like clinking cocktails being stirred.
Others sit silently, cool and wry behind slow, sardonic puffs of smoke.
Through dress, diverse, disparate backgrounds are meshed and moulded into peers
As each independent individual is bound by a common cause conferred.
Happy bears are buzzing like busy bees around a vibrant hive.
Jolly joviality spills spontaneously like sparks spinning from a catherine wheel.
The room revolves with living laughter like light reflected from the mirror balls
In a sanguine celebration of living life and of having yet survived.
Big bears are free and easy when within their small, safe, certain social seal
As they freely, fondly, briefly bond, safely shielded by strong, fortified walls.
But the Barracks is a veiled vampire’s lair of devil dungeon darkness.
An oppressive industrial atmosphere bears down hard like a heavy yoke.
Trance-like techno blasts like sledgehammers, wedging mind and soul apart.
A quick, slick, flickering dance floor breaks the hard, raw, industrial starkness.
Liquid laser lights like livid lightning stab the strong, sultry, surly smoke
Piercing, poking, beep-beep-bop boys and twisting trippy, tranced-out techno tarts.
Yet as different, divergent and diverse as these two bars might outwardly seem
Where bears and bad boys try to hide hurting hearts behind community and sleaze;
Often, inside the rough, tough, bluff stuff, is a softly crying, cornered child
With a soft, sensitive soul and, like used toilet tissue, a stinking self esteem.
They drift like delicate, dancing dandelion seeds buffeted by breeze,
And unprotected, rejected, discarded from every garden, are condemned to grow wild.