This is my latest attempt at trying to capture the Piccolo Bar, I keep reaching for it and am getting closer to being satisfied, though maybe a wild cubist/surrealist vision will be the only way to give a true portrayal.
My latest name for this hot-spot is The Pressure Cooker Cafe as all the action is squeezed into a small box and when anyone is tense, euphoric or hysterical a furore bursts forth like ectoplasm from the spirit world. Yesterday I had a terrible flip-out, on edge from giving up smoking with that bad-arse psycho-drug Champax, I let GlenorGlenda get to me, his nagging had me shrieking and ready to break his turtle-neck, I shook for hours after it. It was so embarrassing, two straighties from Perth shot out of the cafe like cannonballs, I think I'd rather smoke than rip ears from heads. All who enter beware, the ley-lines that meet here bring out any latent craziness. But there's also lots of joy and love if one remains patient and has eyes and heart to see it.
If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB
address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up
anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and
India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.
