What’s left of the riverside forest flashes by.
I watch her hands glide across the page,
accelerating to a literary crescendo.
I want to ask her what’s she’s writing,
but the presence of wild bearded ruffians,
sporting tattoos more intimidating
than a rampaging Tyrannosaurus Rex,
imprison me in silence.
I close my eyes in dismay,
as track work blocks the way.

Aeons later, a bus delivers me
within a Tiger Woods drive
of the billiards table lawns I was promised.
Bowls bag in hand,
I stroll down a Brush Box lined footpath.
ottages peek from behind hedges
as neatly trimmed
as a passing skaters Mohawk.

According to Google Maps I’ve arrived.
Outside the place is as peopled
as the barren expanses of the Stony Desert.
Beyond the tennis and futsal courts
are goat paddocks
in desperate need of goats.
Their former use apparent to bowlers
and archaeologists.

After more buses and trains,
I seek refuge in an Arts Centre
and vow to watch an entire artistic film,
to see if anything happens.
Somehow the sequence of stills
is more action packed than the movie.
After endless aimless rowing,
the artist tips purified water
into an undrinkable river.
The blank wall nearby is more intriguing.
It could be a vast tract of outer space
yet to be visited by starlight.
Some ask how much the artist was paid.
Other’s ask why was he paid at all.
I ask why wasn’t he fined
for boring countless gallery patrons shitless.
After that effort, the Georges River
will have to be renamed the Banal Canal.
I was nearly lulled into a coma
by the artist’s insane obsession with the inane.
The adrenaline rush triggered
by the contrast between his dreary effort
and a mini-series on the history of the toothpick
would kill all but the most ardent thrill seeker.

The gallery café’s gustatory gems,
cannot match the finesse of the poetess
drifting to the mic in a liquid satin dress.
A poetry slam is on the launching pad.
Her mellifluous verses transport me to a place
more exquisite than the world of fashion
and beauty treatments can conjure.

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