Wednesday, February 12, 2020



Godfather Rap

call’s come in from hollywood precinct
douglas fairbanks jr yer lazy mother fucker
get on the case
find sylvia sydney
that slut’s in trouble 
again
she’s dipped a sneaky looking no-mark
got the jackpot with a handful of rocks

but that waster was a george raft grafter
yer hear what i’m saying
he gonna be fucked right off
that bitch got his property
and now he’s gotta do
what a mother fucker’s gotta do

and word on the street is already out
george wants respect and his crack back
that bitch is a lump of dead meat apocalypse
he’s got a shiny nine millimetre
and he’s gonna fuck her up 
good and proper tragically

meanwhile 
douglas fairbanks jr is chasing shadows
up his own asshole
he’s gonna be two years in traffic
after this fiasco

sylvia knows she’s in deep shit
sees veronica lake to call in a favour 
they go way back 
when they were both lap dancers
all she needs is somewhere 
to lie low until the coast is clear
the heat is off

and here’s the steamy romantic bit
sitting on the bed is humphrey bogart
smoking spliff
and he’s thinking she’s no lauren becall
- but i’ll still give her one

her eyes met his 
she prays he’ll fuck her brains out
so she sheds tears and spills the plot
lets him finger her
to whet his appetite

humphrey finds george in some two bit joint
puts a cap in the part his brain was at
and he and sylvia drive off into the sunset
in a knocked off range rover
dr dre bass booming out the stereo

© 2009. P.A.Levy
First published by Curbside Splendor  2012

Saturday, December 14, 2019


iPetition

my flat mate gemma
has become a right little
eco warrior
she’s gonna write
to our MP tomorrow
ask him questions about
landfill and fossil fuels
and do we need more runways
more motorways
green belt building
nuclear power stations
she wants to know
if his vision 
is of a concrete nation

i didn’t know you could do that
you know
write to yer MP
and ask him stuff
so i’m gonna write 
‘cos i wanna find out
why the cosmetics industry
has this strange obsession
to make shower gels
and hair conditioners 
with a spunk like resemblance


© 2008 iDrew
First published by Bad Robot  2012

Thursday, December 12, 2019


License to Thrill

in the bar at the hotel copulate 
it’s late
sipping a martini that’s been shaken
(mini art) he notices 
a beautiful blonde temptress 
all alone
sipping a cocktail

tempted he purrs over to her
with a cocksure swagger
hi my name’s bond
james bond

behind her smile she’s thinking
he’s well fit and i certainly fancy a bit
pleased to meet you mr bond
she replied
my name’s a go-go 
slut a go-go
but please call me slut
she said she smiled 
uncrossed then re-crossed her legs 
sharon stone style

the grating sound of friction
caused by nylon brushing nylon 
aroused james more than a little
can i buy you a stiff drink
he asks

oh james
slut gasps
i don’t think we have time for a drink
we’d best get straight down to the fucking
a brief encounter with you spies
usually means the blonde tragically dies
well 
his eyebrows said
let’s get undercover shall we … 
my room …i’ll order champagne
then show you what we in her majesty’s 
secret service call my weapon 
of untold pleasure

oh james 
slut sighs
you’re such a cunt


© P.A.Levy  2010
First published by Crab Fat 2015

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