Thursday, June 25, 2020

iCandy

i a bag a crisps
you fondle me i crumble
crumbs boy
yous a bar of chocolate
i wanna nibble nibble 
yum nibble delish when 
i feel glum innit 
know what i mean
let’s sugar rush snog listening to 
bubbles of fizzy pop until 
sherbet bombs POP BANG
POP go off in yer arms
and i dissolve
effervescently
believe


sweet as …


© 2013  iDrew
First published by Screeching Owl. 2015

Wednesday, June 24, 2020

Two Timing Mouse

You came home loose sketched 
calling me ‘honey’
with those large graphite grey eyes 
smudged mascara black  
and a cross hatch frown 
formed from a shaded glance down,

and yet it was the animated sadness 
in the corners of your mouth 
that outlined some deceit 
in such an intricately hand tinted sorrow.

I’m sorry I found it so funny,
but you did sound like Minnie Mouse,
I’m sure at one point 
you even said Mickey had found out
as you tried to cling to me; 
end of the world close.

Although I admired that you could sob 
so enthusiastically 
without depth, 
bubbles of pain effervescing 
above your doleful head,
but you always were 
a dimension short of being loving.

Time to confess
that you’re not so skilled in multitasking.
You couldn’t cry and talk simultaneously
you tried,
but it just blabbered out 
in fizzy snot and squeaky noises
as you acted out a cat and mouse charade
in a polka dot dress.


© 2006  P.A.Levy
First published by Aireings 2009

Wednesday, June 3, 2020


Aldeburgh Beach (a walk)


The Britten silver shell gleams when the struggling
sun breaks through, and if you listen carefully 
it’s said you can ‘hear those voices 
that will not be drowned’, clinging
to the scolloped edge as the great roar of the waves
crashes down emulating cymbals.  
A crescendo of the shingle rhythm playing out 
old sea shanties, once repeated by the sound of fiddles 
in the snug of smokey alehouses.

Today’s goal, for the salt faced fisherman,
before the tide that waits for no man can wait no more, 
is to repair his tired nets.  His tilted boat,
stuck fast into a pebble wave, leans lonely looking
for sympathy having been jilted by the buoys.

Crunching over unmade sand
where thrift was making crevice homes,
a defiant sweet toned contrast 
against the grey menace of the North Sea,  
we headed inland towards the ‘House In the Clouds’ 
serenely floating 
in front of the vast white nuclear temple dome:
Sizewell A, Sizewell B, 
spews out into the sea
turning shanties to laments.

Wave goodbye to Peter Grimes, 
say hello to empty nets.


© 2006 by P.A.Levy
First published by Busk 2011

Friday, May 8, 2020




iBaroque


my dearest elizabeth returned
home from manchester disappointed that
the hacenda had closed
something to do with new factory acts
she had only gone for 
a few new tracks and
some of doctor johnson’s vocabulary pills
but alas it was not to be
so she was back home with me in
the candle gloom doing girly things
playing with our hair needlepoint and
giggling without a care

we had drunk three bottles of tesco’s cider
fantising that if lord nelson was still alive
he would capture for us a small island 
concievably he could invade ibzia in a 
day or even in his lunch hour then sit back 
with a brandy soaked laugh and a big fat cigar
studying neuvoux riche investment portfollios
with which we could build space and passion 
in the creamfields 
for fun in the sun away from our routines
of tedious teas and charity deeds
to a place where we could step out 
and be truly carefree
not stuck in smokey london playing charades
in rhythm with grime


© 2014  by iDrew
First published  Picaroon Poetry  23/03/16


Monday, April 27, 2020



Lie Down Spasticus  
  

There’s a tensile edge to us;

alloy lightweight
extra strong accessories to our limbs that would

otherwise collapse
with intermittent jestful ease, to leave us looking drunk

and disorderly
as we pitch and flounder in search of a foothold 

claw toes
fight for balance, grapple against non-committed joints

that thoughtlessly
lock at one-eighty; can’t sit down, or ninety; can’t stand.

We smile,
‘though the effort leaves us exhausted, slow motion

mechanical movements
become the choreographed burr and rust of just being;

metal fatigue
let’s go to bed, undressed to titanium in robotica we perform

Meccanno porn
and not even hydraulic suspension or heavy duty lubrication  

can prevent
those squeaks, singing out louder than bed springs, when

we rasp
and grind each other to filings.  There’s a metal edge to us,

we can’t run but we’re fucking.


©2007  P.A.Levy
First published by Gutter Eloquence  2008

Saturday, April 11, 2020



The DNA of Carbon

The history of grass, 
as churned over into putrid mud,
sets the whistling scythes to work
through freshly ploughed fields.
Crushing the wildness out of flowers  
birdsong lonesome blues 
fades to silence.

Howitzer messengers, harbingers of dark yesterdays;
soundbite words from wisdoms, rarefied beads 
of dazzling deceptions.  Play follow the leader.
Hypnotic.  Catatonic. Trance don’t dance
when you dance in straight lines. Let’s be beetles; 
yeah yeah yeah, let’s be worms.  Compostable truth; 
let’s do the squirm, take your partners for the country lust. 
Return to sender via last post, they’re autumnally challenged
at half mast and will silently  
eventually
rot away.  

Amen.  


© 2006 P.A.Levy
first published by A Cappella Zoo 2008

Monday, March 23, 2020


iBlonde

molotov cocktails
high heeled expletives
napalm hot 
primed and ready
i am your conception the
glossy purr perfection 
blonde bombshell
now be careful not to go off
in my hands
SPLAT!

then there’s the tension
the trepidation of
a booby-trapped kiss
from a lover you know will
break your heart into little bits
(time and time again bomb)
but in his arms
an atomic reaction

and when he looks into my eyes
he sees my history
documented into a dolby surround 
soundtrack of him telling me
i’m beautiful i fall 
head first
in the fermenting odour of poor 
judgement

but never mind all that
he took my number

POW! 


© 2013  by  iDrew
First published by Black Mirror  2014

Friday, March 20, 2020

Caught By The Short and Curlys


Contemptuous look from my reflection
provides all the recommended 
daily dosage of self derision, 
or in other words
just desserts, let it all come crashing down; 
I’ve fucked-up, 
again.

(A feral 
earring. Confirmation artefact; hallmarked 
proof of my deceit.)
Circumstantial archaeology and gossip. 

She was such a small mistake, 
a sluttish little size eight. 
Let’s talk about this.  Please.

There’s vengeance in those dagger sharp eyes 
honed and Maybelline underlined.  Lashes flick-whip. 
Tirades of obscenities from lush kissable lips, 
then I face the cold shoulder as if straight from the fridge 
(isn’t that an omen about serving revenge). 

In the pit of your silence; 
I stumble,
fall head long onto broken promises. 
Onto words that cut, that slice,
that hang in the air like a damning curse.
I’m dangling 

by my own sweet nothings.


© 2007  by P.A.Levy
First published by Kerouac's Dog

Thursday, March 5, 2020



iVirus

home early from work
me boyfriend was sitting on the sofa
watching tv with a pair
of me knickers from the laundry basket
on his face i screamed wtf
he claimed given the present virus epidemic
he needed a mask but couldn’t find one
d i y supermarkets and chemists all sold out
thought me gusset would do the job
and yer stiffy i coyishly quizzed
he deeply inhaled and in a casual
matter of fact way as if claiming sanctuary
odour de fanny
fancy finishing me off babe
he daemonly replied with
a glint like russell brand
yeah you be sick boy - pervy sick
consider yerself
discharged

© 2020  iDrew

Tuesday, February 18, 2020




Playing Dead

standing in a queue to collect our costumes a chorus 
line smiling (what you grinning at lad)
on parade (smarten up) chest proud
(right two three
and turn two three)
we felt like dancing girls

only ‘till christmas it’ll be a pantomime (i think 
we were the arse end of a cow) a tour of france
a song and laugh as we waved from the train
just time to to fix bayonets then be home again to sing 
of goodwill to all men on earth     
roast chestnuts    
holly wreaths and a mistletoe kiss

we acted out our orders leaving a script to loved ones
tucked into the sand bags of the pits before
stepping on to the boards for our matinee performance
the conductor lifted his baton
in full voice we charged crying with stage fright
into the footlights of the winter sun and an overture 
of machine guns
we walked tall 
centre stage
into no mans’ land


and the clapping artillery and the front row’s aim

no star performers
no headline acts just haig’s troupe 
with a cast of thousands

(cue) mortar applause
(cue) poppy bouquets

then the final curtain falls


© 2006  P.A.Levy
First published by Forward Poetry for In A Flanders Field Anthology  2014




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