Chris Brown



Walk in the past

Whatever the name of the fear of opening one’s mail
I guess it derived from that fateful telegram. Memorable
but let’s not go into it. Not far enough from my feet today.
But what we could do in a couchette. Bed bugs in Naples?
Apologies my autoprompt – across the water and nylon
roses straightening the silverware as scenting out the
soon extinguished scandal. Little difference that here
the greek “spit and polish” has the old bloodmarket neo
polis. Fact in plainest sight on streets sopra which spin
a standing deck of icon-encrusted cartoline and ask a
price. While you’re off fishing in knotted trinkets for
a crucifix and a gilt tea
spoon. Then the sun
               settling down
               darkening the
               mock terracotta
               at blue edges.
Item: bladed arrabiata becoming midnight heart
burn. Thus the light comes on. And comes on
accusingly. Sees me the more noble of our dyad.
Cites the case of success tested when boasting of era
sure of writing my self completely from the poem.
I’d take the compulsive speaker’s click reflex any day. History’s
the ticket to a bad neck. But where to go? At least turn
out the light and lie the night awake. The pain burns
off like a mist in the morning.



I want your word

You have it…from our waking moment: some night to reflect upon.
This morning I read myself obliquely in your poems and thank you.
I always wanted to plagiarise you seemed acknowledgment enough.
Here’s my promissory note: “oh that was mine?” you ask and waive it.
A screen “subtle” and “provocative” and has designs to draw you out –
I don’t bite that easy and pass it on to you instead: message received –
received? A breakfast settee. Again the thickskinned and Familiar con
trive at revelation. What goes on record: we couldn’t hope to watch it
back. Passive? merely safe-storing a few hand grenades for the panel –
Didn’t the Wednesday “at-home” those masters at ceremony and life
coaches learn you: one must not probe the inwardness of a situation
but learn the things not said. Least apologise! Books stood props at
table. You listen for your moment and…this hideaway your heels
and my anxiety….Later to it I fear a booth behind or neighbouring
conclave on the vicarious narrative yet Lisarow intervenes. Sense
a further scrap astir (gathering Scenic) so ready my volume override –
that grit or silence between songs: most reliably. Set waits but wings
hum. Walk into these winter structures and turn them on for all.





Chris Brown lives in Newcastle, Australia. He is working on a collection of poems called hotel universo.
 
 
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