“Pull My Daisy”
by M. R. Brown
The poet
waking off the hardwooded floors,
scatter-thought, as the old folks
gather outside church in the morning.
In his breast pocket he keeps the
four pronged memory notepad, pages
filled with the unbridled desires and passions.
The secrets to the poet’s heart.
These words, characters
placed in perfect unison, one
beside the next, are vacant from the bookstore
shelves. I’ve read what he offered all men, $24.95.
It’s Sunday morning in the universe and all
is right. The flat’s a mess, what with
all the little plastic bottles and books half read,
set against a white painted wall. The evening
stink of dried wine and spilt beer. Did no one drink
the darker liquor last night?
There are horns playing from outside
as the caps and suits file down the sidewalks
in their neat and ordered rows. The television
is on in the four cornered room, news channels
left running from last evening, all previously recorded.
They break the silence of the room for the moment.
Faint echoes of the past arguing what is present
and what is past.
The poet comes out of the white
steeled door, twitching his head as
he cours the room for a last cigarette.
He sits forcefully on the grey couch, blending
in. With the final drag of his cigarette he says,
‘What’s in my chest, boy, is for no man’s eyes.
What’s in my chest can never be sold.’
Anita Ellis sings with such beauty. Such a beauty can
never be harmed.
With Cruel Intent 