Behind The Red Daisbeginswith an appeal to the nose.
“First, the smell of rotten strawberries…” reads the opening text.
“That’s how you will know you are not dreaming.”
And yet, the smell lingers.
On the bed, a “red, dry stain”.
Roots wind across a scuffed wooden floor, leading you between chambers or disappearing beneath bookcases.
Perhaps even, an autobiography.
I wonder if there’s another kind of sequence hidden there, waiting to be dug up.
One of the more enigmatic lines is: “My feet are dancing.
I hear this voice fade.”
What conclusions am I drawing when I choose to leave that observation as I found it?
Am I suggesting that it belongs in this drained yet arresting world?
How does keeping it or relinquishing it affect my reading of neighbouring phrases?
And why can I still smell strawberries?
