Spanked

    Buying up egg rolls at 50¢ a kick,
    they royally entered our bloodstream
    - a riot of sensation
    akin to dynamite caps
    kicked off in the brain.

    Later, sitting in the booth
    a chocolate brown wall
    to aid the digestion;
    a frumpy waitress
    plunks water down
    to complete the feast.

    Taken back, the surcharge
    at such festivities exorbitant,
    we squander in exact change
    the full price to do it again.

Paul Cameron Brown

Paul Cameron Brown is a Canadian poet known for his extensive work in both poetry and art criticism. Born in western Canada, Brown has had a prolific career in writing, often intertwining themes of human experience and nature. His works have been showcased in various literary magazines and anthologies. With a style that is both reflective and evocative, he has gained recognition not only in Canada but also internationally.

Paul Cameron Brown

Equinox

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Clippership

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Dress Rehearsal

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

La Douce Mer

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

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Chinatown I

    And a little farther
    the Fu Manchu mustache
    curved in mock epic proportions
    of a scimitar un-sheaved for action,
    perhaps the executioner's progress
    his victims entombed to their skulls
    in rolls of quivering earth -
    the parting of the ways
    coming as your coin drops
    to the rasp of his
    tin cup chuckle.

Paul Cameron Brown

Clandestine Operation

    The most appropriate comment,
    besides pig knuckles on racks
    & rabbits skewered on prongs
    or the Chinese lettering
    playing tricks with your Occidental eyes,
    is the Breakfast at Tiffany's
    approach to suffering -
    that ambience of egg rolls
    & fortune cookies dashed aside with
    mild dosages of rose-petal tea
    amid such trappings and parodies
    of the human experiment left stammering
    in the too crowded sun

Paul Cameron Brown

Chemin De Fer

    Had I been
    a gambling man,
    eschewing the "shoe"
    of chemin de fer ...
    perpetually perched upon that throne
    ... effete kingdom of the dice.

    II
    I am that gambling man ...
    taking free access to many
    a natural habitat, lure
    of the open road,
    contents under a bottle cap,
    the riverine delicacies
    of female flesh. Svelte, like
    the croupier's green vision of cloth,
    tingley-trigger smooth yet addictive
    to the touch.

    III
    Or the pleasures of Ovaltine
    (not necessarily the brand name)
    ... by the handful or cup ...
    upon a summer's day,
    the mind blur of expensive art.

    IV
    Blackjack. Three card stud.
    The poker-face...

Paul Cameron Brown

Water Fast (The Pearl Fishers)

    Shopping in their heads
    - a man a pair of shoes
    right colour (tan, off-white) shape -
    only good physiques need apply,
    degree, tall;
    self-confidence a "must".

    Not yuppie, really,
    more consumerism as in
    I made the grade (she really
    thinks this; meanwhile, she's
    plump, dull).

    Standing in the showroom window,
    she spies the mirror image of herself.
    Your attitude is your altitude.
    Of course, he's "polished"
    (tho' not worn), urbane
    witty - this goes without saying.
    Well-travelled, maybe, though potential
    liability, here, suggestive of footloose.
    Restless. Perhaps given over to bouts
    of hedonism - a dangerous portent.

    Feel I've stumbled ba...

Paul Cameron Brown

Countess

    The pig's head omelette -
    something akin to a tatoo
    buried squarely on the upper
    torso of the man
    wielding an axe,
    chopping wood.
    Shoulders drooped,
    the bizarre rendition
    had a female
    counterpart
    - a snake, fitted like a
    fish-net stocking,
    coating the upper leg of
    the dancer writhing to music,
    so soporific,
    near the copper shield
    of the table,
    ever-molten ash,
    air-borne with the foetid smear
    & puff of cigarette smoke.

Paul Cameron Brown

Slaughterhouse

    You're the aggressor
    and your passion exceeds mine
    but we're in this slaughterhouse together
    and it's near closing.

    Vats of prickly ointment
    destined to repattern animal skin
    and tubs of steaming formaldehyde
    rest casually with the more antiseptic
    thrill of green sawdust.

    Blood is a chameleon, here, changing colours
    en route to sausage and Pram but
    my hotdogs and donuts are
    holding better to the cuttlefish
    in this unnatural forest.

    The stars are a jangle of planets
    in a world where wood became noise;
    each ceiling beam, incidentally,
    is the wrenched out spine
    of a Longhorn steer,
    doorknobs pig knuckles
    bound for Octoberfest fear.
    Ev...

Paul Cameron Brown