Cafe Boulevard deconstructs
its caesar salad and lets me eat
in front of the computer as I never
do at home. Dymocks
takes five of my books but Borders
tells me to call head office. Mary Martins
takes two. After the reading
I go out with Peach and Ava Lanche and MCM and Alice
and Gail and Kael and Raphael. They talk about
their projects and Ava Lanche
whose real name is Ivan
talks about Czechoslovakia in the 60s, the Russian
invasion when he was 10. MCM apologises
for blocking the alfresco heater and someone else says
I have a choice of his balls or his arse in my face. I say
I don’t mind, both sides of him look good to me, and he says
thank you darling
or something like that. Last time I was here
I found different things, and slept in a hostel. This time
I sleep at Teri’s. She’s a transgender lesbian ex-punk with Sex
Pistols all over the walls and ceilings. She likes my song
about Ian Curtis, and my suicide poem. There’s a zippered cunt
collage on the wall of my room and all the books
I want to read but haven’t got around to
are shelved next to the sofa. The Guinness
in PJ O’Briens is still good and they still play U2
and The Cranberries and I still don’t think
their cabinets marked ‘Poetry and Plays’ and ‘Literature’
have been opened. Ever. The sun
shines into the grid of wide streets and the five green
squares, and I can’t get lost, not even at midnight. Whoever planned
this city centre was a genius. Amelia says
she’s writing a poem about him. I put on
the long black coat and Teri in her purple hat says
you’re too flash for Adelaide.