Spunk sees Cruel lass from afar
gobsmacked by her looks
he gets smitten hard
and determines she’ll be hooked
Asks her mates for her mobile number,
and all her social media pages,
scours internet for details,
winds himself up in rages.
Gets his message through once
or twice but she mocks him
“ Fancy me. You do right. I’m gorgeous”
and promptly blocks him.
Finds her home and knocks
and her Dad answers and says
“She don’t want to know, son.
Thinks your a stalker. Away!”
Writes his first letter and posts
it personally through her door,
it tells her she’s won and he’ll be gone
she can celebrate and more
she can see him lose his life
which is all he has left for her.
Cruel scoffs at this but goes along
for the crack and laughter.
She sees him throw a rope
already knotted around a beam
put his neck in the noose
and let out a scarifying scream.
Then she feels herself harden
calcified flesh and bone
she is a statue.
My father looks backwards
in and out
an open door.
My mother flows around
me and I flow into her.
One day a year
folk throw petals onto me.
lambent auroral wet
they alight, dampen.
I enter their veins
polished, radiant relucent.
They have a gobful of me
and thank me when I am clean.
so they do not know
where they are
or what’s going on.
They are because of me.
They sup and bathe
I am their sharp mirror.
The Ruin (After the Anglo Saxon)
Cracking wall-stone ragged wi yonks
Battlements brok, tall uns work laced.
Roofs a ruin, towers brought dahn,
brok barred gate, rimed plaster,
walls gob open, ragged up, destroyed,
age worn. Earth-grip holds
prahd builders, flitted, long since,
hard grasp o’ grave, past hundred generations
of folk passed. Yon wall outlasted,
lichen-hoary, red-raw, stood up t’batter,
one reign atter another; high arch nah felled
wall-stone still stands, weapon hacked,
by grim-grahnd flies.
Mood quickened mind, and mason,
skilled in rahned-building, bahned wall-base,
wondrously wi iron.
Bright were halls, many the baths,
High the gables, great the joyful yammer,
many mead-hall pleasures full
’til fate t’ grand o’erturned it all.
Slaughter spread wide, pestilence arose,
and death flitted wi all them brave men
Their bulwarks broken, their halls med desolate,
cities crumbled, menders int grahnd. And so halls are empty,
curved arch sheds its tiles,
ripped from roof. Decay brung dahn,
brok to rubble. Where once many a warrior,
heart held high, gold-bright, gleamin splendour,
prahd an wine-flushed, shone in armour,
scanned a treasure o’ silver, precious gems,
riches o’ pearl…
in yon bright city of broad rule.
Stone courts once stood, an hot streams fetched forth,
wide floods o’ watta, surrahnded by a wall,
in its bright breast, there where baths were,
hot in middle.
Hot streams ran o’er hoary stone
past allus a ruin
an now allus a ruin o’ past
Paul Brookes was shop assistant, security guard, postman, admin. assistant, lecturer, poetry performer, with “Rats for Love”, his work included in “Rats for Love: The Book”, Bristol Broadsides, 1990. First chapbook was “The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley”, Dearne Community Arts, 1993. Read his work on BBC Radio Bristol, had a creative writing workshop for sixth formers broadcast on BBC Radio Five Live. Recently published in Clear Poetry, Nixes Mate, Live Nude Poems, The Bezine, The Bees Are Dead and others.
Forthcoming summer 2017 is an illustrated chapbook called “The Spermbot Blues” published by OpPRESS, and tentatively in autumn 2017 “The Headpoke” illustrated chapbook published by Alien Buddha Press.