Monday, October 28, 2019



iAngel

with a tinsel halo
and a pair of little feather wings
butter wouldn’t melt
dressed in white
like a choir
we were singing naff pop songs
as loud as we could
snaking our way
along the high street
pretending we were dead good

lined up
on the guest list
we sounded like a latin prayer
mia donna christina 
emma victoria alice emma
rachel drew hannah gemma
holly joanne holly may sophie 
ami 

but after the club shut 
we were that dun in on holy water
hannah had a gutter wee
down the side street by monsoon
donna caught a whiff of the body shop
threw up on their doorstep
she almost passed out outside waterstones
sat on the pavement taking deep breaths
legs wide open
joanne 
for no apparent reason
tossed a burger
at the window of jane norman
holly had dun her first pill
was electric and sparklin’ and buzzin’
all loved-up with everyone
one of the emma’s gave it large
about some flash buff bloke
fingered for a phone number
and a bottle of doubleewekaydee blue
alice reckoned she’d given some lad
a shuffle in his pants
slut rachel fessed she went 
so much further 
than that

becci’s hen night was well wicked
shame becci vanished with the stripper
wasn’t around to witness
christina flashing her tits at some fit copper

even though we’d forgotten
most of the words        
we was still singing robbie’s angels
with our voices ever so saintly and sweet
that angelic
are we




©2010  iDrew
First published by  Beatnik 2010

Thursday, October 24, 2019

Busted

Big shout 
for the boys in blue 
who act all Keystone
when they bust down me door 
charge in
under the influence of
heavy duty shots; 
caffeine, testosterone and whiskey
a-go go. Gone.

In my home like a burglar, 
rooting though drawers and cupboards.  
Stomping around in size twelve boots 
shouting the odds,
throwing me stuff all over the gaff.
Even trying to pocket 
the free gift
from the corn flakes packet.

Bit over the top 
for a couple of pills and a bag of weed, 
and I’d really like to see 
the training manual
that instructs on tipping
the bin out over the kitchen floor
so you can go a bit Sherlock, 
investigate any vitamin deficiencies.

Then one of them charmingly says: 
“OK scum! 
Before we start cracking heads
where’s yer proper stash.”
Nice try cuntstable,
might have been a plan
before you carried out acts 
of mass vandalism.
I bet it’s all please and pardon me
in the leafy posh avenues.

So a big shout 
for those boys in blue,
they could have been mechanics, or salesmen,
plumbers, electricians or even chefs,
instead they chose
to wear a tit on their head.


© 2009  P.A.Levy
First published 2010 by Bring The Ink

Monday, October 7, 2019



‘How To Philosophize With A Hammer’
(or down in the East End with Niezsche.)


Me and Phil Mitchell, you know the geezer, 
face like a boiled clam, lobster colour 
and steaming, were ‘aving a few jars down
the Queen Vic, chatting about this, chatting 
about that, when I notice his ‘ead starts
ballooning into some grotesquely pink 
bubble gum bauble all set to go: BANG! 

Laughably ‘e concludes it’s because          
‘e went to uni and ‘e needs to express
his ideas on Jean-Paul Sartre and Nietzsche. 
I thought Chelsea had splashed the cash again, 
got in some new lads for their pub quiz team,
so not to be out done I mouthed off 
untold praise for the West Ham Academy. 

Slurps on his lager, pulls gargoyle faces,
before going on about reinventing 
treason; claims there’s too much rhyming 
and too few metaphors in the world these days,
blames all our woes on lesbians and gays.
Just then his brother Grant pipes up, moaning, 
fed up, on the look out for a cheap thrill;
so we kicks the shit out of Ian Beale.

After the pub we get the eighty six 
to Stratford, me and Phil ‘ave another 
set to, all ‘cos ‘e reckons that was where 
Shakespeare came from, but I know ‘e were south 
of the river, so says I, that makes ‘im, 
bard or no bloody bard, Millwall and a bit pikey, 
and, let’s face it, for 'im to ‘ave  crossed 
the Thames; what for, it’s just so unlikely.

Now Grant’s getting very bored by all this 
old rabbit.  At the bus stop ‘e lays into
some fart-faced queue jumping hag.            
Her shopping hits the deck and there’s apples
and pears rolling about in the gutter,
‘er bag gets split, there’s claret and piss
all over the shop.  There’s even some talk
of the old bill coming, blue lights flashing.
And on top of all that, the bus driver 
gets all in a right ol’ strop.  Just ‘cos we 
ain’t got nufink smaller than an tenner.

So we legs it off up to the Boleyn.
Downs a portion of pie and mash with green 
liquor. Then we ‘ave a little sing song, 
a few choruses of:‘Bubbles’ sat around 
the World Cup statue of Hurst an’ Peters 
holding aloft the late great Bobby Moore.
Feeling all claret and blue, Grant reckons 
I’m blessed to be in the: ‘Twilight of the Idols’.

© 2006  P.A.Levy
first published Stub  2010

Thursday, September 12, 2019



iCharity

it's a matter of life and death
that's why i'm starting this charity
please send me large donations
as the need for your help 
is a matter of great urgency

i've seen these shoes
oh my god these shoes
are to die for
i've tried them on
and just like cinderella 
they fit only me 
perfectly
but here's the cinders snag
they cost nearly 300 quid

and yet
i need them - or my life is incomplete
i need them - or i just won't be able to breathe
i need them i want them i love them i adore them
or my whole life is just useless 
and i'll self harm with the buckle
from a pair of plastic sandals

so send cash 
please 
to save drew
from the fate of dolcis  


© 2008  iDrew
First published  Twenty Something Press  2012








The Time of Your Life

Somewhere the sound of the ‘tick’ 
and the ‘tock’ can be heard.
The snapping teeth, the laws of movement, 
the metal grind

enslaved into your own lifetime: 
hours have their hands in chains.

To look into a mirror and witness
dying moonbeams sing such sad songs;
pass away unnoticed and are forever gone.

Disappeared into an unnerving 
brittle silence, a creeping whiteness 
that has no sound.

Erratic ebb and flow of agitated breathing 
crashes the baseline 
when a nihilistic heart beat whispers its slow rhythm 
and all you hear are lamentations of your name 
carved in marble; bound by ivy 
to cemetery solemnity.  
The face on the clock; deceitful smile.  

Time is not on your side.

In youth,
gloriole of star bursts silhouetted the romantic
but now the unbuttoned moon 
has snuffed out her starry glints,
and you, embellished by facet fascinations, 
have false hopes blunted 
by cut paste immitations.

Sing along to the choir
that levitates above your head

gravity defying.

The heavy hours. Weight.  Waiting 
for the veiled kiss
of the charnel house dreamers.

Something blue: your lips. 
Something borrowed: happy ever–afters.

Somewhere the sound of the ‘tick’ 
and the ‘tock’ can be heard, 
fixed on a loop under a glass domed coffin.


© 2006  P.A.Levy
First published  2008 by Poetic Diversity

Friday, August 2, 2019

















iDrive

on a driving holiday
in the u  s  of  a 
i rented a cadillac 
but on route sixty six
cary grant
crashed into the back
of me 

to make amends
he took me on a road trip
with jayne mansfield
we were having such a blast
laughing our heads off
over isadora duncan’s scarf


© 2009 iDrew
first published MediaVirus 2009

Monday, July 22, 2019

They Don’t Build Cathedrals Anymore

Out of town
we are but strangers in a strange land
with homeless dust drying in our mouths
and disappointment etched 
like claw scars down our cheeks.
Almost horror struck we stared
from behind barbed wire fences
as oxide red skeletons stretched 
up into the cod-scaled greyness. 

Two cranes take to the dance floor 
performing a slow motion tango. 
The beat of blueprints 
synchronizes their movements; 
arms swing angular, all brute force and sweat.

As wonderment pushed grit from our eyes 
we stood 
like corner shop natives
waiting for that moment
when the glass dome was to be set
like a diamond.  We gasped at the thought
that automatic doors would welcome us inside 
to walk upon the marbled floors, 
and to listen to the chorus of cash tills singing: 
“Hallelujah” 
as they exchange all our prayed for dreams 
with credit card receipts; consumer redemption 
available 10 a.m. to 10 p.m., even on Sundays.  

For now we have seen the light, 
nine out of ten of us agree, you have to buy icons
to obtain retail spirituality.


© 2006  P.A.Levy
First published by Social-i  2010 

Wednesday, July 3, 2019


 iAmbient 

last night 
i fell in love 
with the aphex twin
and i felt the full emotion
of bleeps
and little squiggle noises

as a chord
i collected all the passion laced 
expired breaths 
tokens 
for the dream archive 
in the cupboard
(keepsakes 
of special shiny things
a pressed dead daisy chain
a button 
a kinder toy
old cinema tickets
the kiss i always wanted
from before we met)

last night i fell in love with
you
as you moved inside me
slowly
so 
exquisitely slow 
to goosebump my 
skin 

when we 
laid down 
with the aphex 
twin

©2008 iDrew
First published by 2010