labyrinths small page screens, numbered, corners turned, placemarked underlined pencilled comments in margins, highlighted passages into underground caves designs written on stone walls, maps historical paths, landscape tells, inscendance, weathered typography, spoor marks on snow, enters through the head’s holes, pixalled iris.
of inscendence. I dig into the core of my unknowing, become a stranger to you again. I dismember, dissolve. Rip off my arms and legs. Unscrew this head. My dismembered arms disembowel my internal organs. My mouth on my loosened head sucks up the blood out of my stomach’s wound. My teeth rip out my rib cage. The freed fingers take out my eyeballs, disconnects my tongue. All my deconstructed parts sit and wait. Pieces can never be put back exactly as they were when whole. I will assemble myself differently.
farmhouse kitchen, polished gold hangs on rich leather straps from white painted walls. He is farming stock. Inherited milk business and books on keeping horses from his dad, who kept stables until he could afford a small van in the sixties. Sold stables and horses. His son rides with the hunt now amid scowls and jeers from protesters. Once a pig farmer, lately returned to long haul drive of arctics. Gold waistcoat and fine moleskin trousers polished up a treat like his brasses. Twice divorced he says “I stand no nonsense.”
Many thanks to Tasha for publishing.
Source: A Guffaw by Paul Brookes
“A Guffaw” kindly featured by Tasha in Inbetween Hangovers
https://t.co/nTxlOdhvCx via @wordpressdotcom
Four poems, comprising some family history narrative | Paul Brookes | Meta/Phor(e)/Play
via We chose a day | Coffee Bruise Thursday | Paul Brookes — Meta / Phor(e) / Play
“Don’t Read This Sentence” kindly published by Glory in Glomag
“Our Birdsong” featured in The Creative Cafe. Many thanks, Jake.
https://thecreative.cafe/our-birdsong-567a3322a8dd
told me married life is one bag of fish and chips and two forks, a freewheel on rubber wheels down a steep street, finding a hidden way through, the surprise of a big real wood hide with wide windows on to bird chatter mirrored in a flash where old mine workings were forcibly removed, a rare orange beaked Oystercatcher strides waterside scratches it’s existence on a shore with feet and beak water washes away, a seventy two year old man who says he walked it despite two heart attacks, diabetes, eye operations and a hole in his side and working on the six railway sidings they made into a lake, a steady walk with heavy bike down scree soiled hill to the removed railway now a bike, dog and pram trail, a haul up the hill to shops and last minute purchases, a stroll through heated gravestones and uphill to home. Married life should be a tale of friends, laughter, discovery and stories for later.
Honoured to have five poems in Blazevox Spring 17. Thankyou Geoffrey. http://www.blazevox.org/BX%20Covers/BXspring17/Paul%20Brookes%A0-%20Spring17.pdf
via 
The Wombwell Rainbow 