we met once in the Blue Mountains. I was playing a blue guitar at Echo Point, surviving on gold coin donations from an endless stream of Japanese tourists while playing John Martyn songs. You were wrapped in a poor imitation of a Burberry and muttering something about Black Sabbath. Those were the days. Remember how, when I mentioned the name Richard Neville a currawong set itself on fire?
I have just received news that you have been corresponding with the Red K. This is bleak news. This man survives on the skins of lemons and treachery. I hear that you are giving a paper and reading poems at the Poetry & Tracery conference in Melbourne. We are going to distrupt the conference with recordings of whitebait being torn to shreds by Spanish Mackerel, and take you on a fishing holiday to Yanco Creek, in the Riverina, where the water rats quote James Dickey and the Waggas migrate from dam to dam. Common sense will prevail!
Your distant acquaintance