Paul Brookes

“My Hubby Has A Prince Albert On


his baby carrot

to blight his King Edwards.

He’d tickle your Vesuvius, love.”

Says Martin. I love shopping

with him. Gay blokes know what’s

good on you.


He says “My sister got Pound Shop threaded eyebrows:

two black slugs on a ledge.

Elizabeth Taylor weeps.


Yoga pants with holy knees.

She’s been shagging on the carpet.

Should have carpet burns

where her pants are ripped.


Looks like a bull with a ring

through its nose this septum thing.

She hasn’t got a jewellery box,

so dangles it all off her ears.


Bright and bold stripes. Ha!

She looks like a bloody deckchair,

or Denise the Menace. Put up or shut up.


Smiley piercings inside her top lip,

when she smiles looks like a lonely

curtain ring that’s lost its curtain.”

I love Martin. Wish straight blokes

were more like him.



Man Enough


18 in 1980 week afore starting uni,

lads night out and your dressed

in Burton’s bright yellow like a canary,

socks, shoes, shirt, jacket, because it’s cool.


Lads boast they down 11/12 pints

of John Smiths bitter a night,

shag a lass then do same next night.

You’ve never done neither.


Follow lads round like fresh meat,

loud and brash, they talk of shagging

bints, fast cars, live bands you’ve

never seen coddled by your mam and dad.


Four pints in and your eyelids droop,

bitter makes you fall asleep, lasses

in short skirts with intentions nuzzle

up but loud music means you can’t listen


to what they’re saying and wouldn’t know

what to say. Lads jostle you. “We’re off

to neet club. A tha cumming?”. I shout

an apology. “Got to be in by 11.”


They get off. I leave the pub, buy

a pizza and pissed walk home uphill

chomping on greasy slices, cardboard

box too big, one side of road to another.


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