Whisky Girl

    I like'em ragged round the rim,
    rough drawn at dawn
    panting at the edge,
    belly-button ring
    tattooed naval
    drinking silk panties shooters,
    not much in between
    if you know
    What I mean

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

Shivaree

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Comments

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Vertigo

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Primavera

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Countess II

    Imagining the smoke burnt
    imprint of a tatoo
    with tapers flickering,
    the bejewelled gaze a dragon's snout
    must bring
    or the serpent coil, crimson flame
    curl of dashing cobra,
    its very fangs drawing
    lifeblood from the fleshy
    perch in smooth, red scorching.

    On the pectorals of a sailor.
    Perhaps whiplash of the granite waves,
    grim trucker with a "Mother"
    grasping chains
    that see burly sandbags in place -
    hirsute biker, cords of
    hair lashing his tattooed lady
    the lavender caress of scar
    with implant that
    of the chopper itself,
    her fleshy buttocks
    careening off the road.

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

Colette

    The waitress mainlines
    the cup under the saucer
    balancing it on the
    waistband of her arm
    much as a junkie
    might tie a tourniquet.

    Wiping the glass edge
    of the table
    clear of croissant crumbs
    & watching the barely dry
    reflection of her own
    image going thru the emotions.
    the California chic
    pothouse & gardenia
    bloom effect of
    her work is enough
    to leave a dirty smear.

Paul Cameron Brown

Trinkets

    My mind a buzz saw,
    wood chips in decapitated thought
    soil chilblained hands

    II
    Cleansing wood,
    the keen smell of sawdust
    - good, raw earth drenching
    the nostril, clean odour
    of nature like my brain,
    a broomstick sweeping
    the coffee pot speaking ...
    bubbles massed in steam
    inchoate in their pensive rivulets.

Paul Cameron Brown

A New Girl Up At Whites

There's a fresh track down the paddock
Through the lightwoods to the creek,
And I notice Billy Craddock
And Maloney do not speak,
And The Snag is slyly bitter
When hes criticising Bill,
And theres quite a foreign glitter
On the fellows at the mill.

Sid MMahons turned out a dandy
With a masher coat and tie,
And the engine-driver, Sandy,
Curls his whiskers on the sly:
All the boys wear paper collars
And their tombstone shirts of nights,
So its ten to one in dollars
Theres a new girl up at Whites.

Shes a charmer from the river,
But she steeps the lads in gloom,
With her blue eyes all a-quiver
And her hair like wattle-bloom;
Though shes pretty and beguiling,
And so lit up, like, with fun
That the flowers turn to h...

Edward

Skin

    Her emerald top
    phosphorescent candy glow
    stick candy,
    sno' cane -
    floss like
    the mane revealed beneath,
    spun hair matted/woven into
    icicle lengths & pubis mink.

    Her presence as a monk sliding
    under a cowl, jet-black velvet
    or midnight eye-liner shadow
    knotting strands of dark.

    She comes on waves -
    candelabra is a name
    deft movement of finger
    caressing storm, bare legs
    shining wet street lamps
    decantered ambered wine.

    Cigarette floating between lips,
    uncharted voyage of the smile
    where puffs of smoke
    are parrots' wings,
    incandescent show-girls
    in novelty across the flame.

Paul Cameron Brown