Untitled 54 Poem by Andy Brookes

what is the architecture of a life?
not the bricks and mortar of cells,
branches of arteries and veins, brain, sinew, muscle, bone

it's not about who made you the act but a short pleasure.
the big bang with which every life begins, a selfish gene machine.
It is what you become life's experiences forming and structuring
like old houses a added to a hodgepodge of styles.


I am grateful to the sperm donor; to the warm wet incubator that nurtured me,
until the time I made my first appearance.

birth it is the only time you hold centre stage,
the star. Except, of course, in death

though there were no loving arms, gentle words, crooning lullabies.
having made me, the two principles left, exit stage right.

they sadly could not stick around, to mess me up or be of any influence,
they left that to others, yet they are always spectres at my feast.
family and not, just faces in faded photographs.