Wednesday, May 12, 2021


wow i had this odd dream last night

i was giving alan bennet a blow job 

just as he was about to come he said


in his funny little way

i looked up startled 

he shot me in the eye 


i was then on a cliff top with the duke of gloucester

you know the way dreams have a strange tendency 

to cut out the boring bits 

of how I got there without 

a blind dog or white stick and 

why i should be with a character from king lear

(please let me be cordelia  please let me be cordelia)


we was both stumbling around 

crashing into each other like bumper cars

but there was a gang of lemmings 

just hanging out

chewing gum 

acting all tuff

one of them says

why don’t you two piss off and find yer own cliff top


the lemmings then unexpectantly jumped 

(no strings attached)

into a red arrows style formation 

only to re-emerge as alan bennet again 


which made me shiver

would you like a cup of tea 

i’ve some home made scones that mother baked 

fresh this morning with lashings of cream

oh my days

i pray

i’m never so drunk as to dream of

giving alan bennet a blow job


©  2010  iDrew

First published by Fry Your Friends. 2015

Monday, April 19, 2021


 I Don’t Love You No More (Lie)

There’s a poppy laced rope trick that ties

us together; time to talk about heartbeats

missing beats, and a thumping back beat

of dancefloor cerebral twists

and turns and 5ml super novas

bubbling up to dissolve all sounds

until a sludge crimson trickle begins to flow 

into the clear silence, a vacuum like silence,

whilst I held you in my arms

in an endless, joyless, crusade 

to replicate our first kiss

(again and again and again) 

turning my world upside



For down is a word with many meanings,

a small innocent word left behind

in a makeshift filter

with a brown scum residue of false dreaming.

My mind’s eye is full of poetic clich├ęs

of high flying burning kites

magnetising kamikaze moths 

(yes, I’ll miss you) 

but we’ve said our lying good-byes.

©2007  P.A.Levy

First published by  Cause and Effect  2008 #12

Thursday, March 25, 2021

 Fondling Your Breasts In Roman Britain

Leaving the museum, the one we frequently 

met in at lunchtimes, I stepped out 

from the marbled entrance

onto a carousel of umbrellas, a waltz of mini spires 

Constantinople domes holding  

up a dull city sky.  

Splash! and a ripple, 

and a ripple raced to the edge, puddled against 

a background streaked by smudges 

of red buses as black cabs drizzle 

through streams of traffic; a-swirl of street sounds 

mixed with the anxious fear of leaves left to shiver                                  

as they succumb to the cull of Autumn.  

This our season;  


recalling diary pages 

coded with our assignations, as trees unclothed 

so truths falsely told; seduction 

and sandwiches (egg and cress) 

touching warm flesh under October clothing,  

undoing buttons with fingers numb 

and Anglo Saxon kisses buried deep inside 

glass case coffins.

From the pavement 

I glanced back 

at memory,

standing on the marble steps 

like the recently bereaved,

calculating the value of broken things.  

© 2007  P.A.Levy
First published by Inclement 2012



Wednesday, March 10, 2021


at night

al chohol is my best mate

he makes me laugh and dissolves

away my inhibitions but

come the morning come the sunlight

moody al becomes my nemesis

makes me suffer for

drinking tea tortures me by taking

an axe and split-

ting my head forcing 

nasty evil daylight 

into my eyes as shameful

memories slowly crawl into my brain

no work today i’ll stay 

in bed i’ll phone

my boss to say i’m ill

the icky girly thing

i think in future i’m better off to

stick with spliff and pills

© 2015. iDrew

First published by  Workzine 2016

Monday, March 1, 2021


my bed socks are poetry 

my bed a womb in afterglow

my toes like curled embryos

my position foetal as i lay alone

my love plan was made in taiwan

my broken sleep spooked and un-dreamt

my whispered longings now never said 

my dresses look like ghosts of me

my epitaph reads ‘died unnaturally’   


my haunted heart has memory

my bed socks are knitted poetry

i’m cold

come back my love and cuddle me

© 2013  iDrew

First published by PinkGirlInk  2015

Friday, February 5, 2021


Feeding a Habit In Woolworths (pick and nick) - circa 1984  

We were both full of self loathing in East Ham

High Street.  Actually, thinking it over, we should have swapped 

this disposition with each other, a psychological exchange 

and mart: me hating you, you hating me; clinically healthier.


I’m out in the cold kicking a crushed Benson and Hedges 

packet against Woolies window, waiting, kicking my heels, forever 

waiting for you to come out, a radio or two under yer coat, pockets 

stuffed with lavender piss perfumes and gold coloured rings.  

I’ll be ready to stumble into the cod-faced security guard floundering 

at yer soles until me and he collide and we both take a tumble, hit

the pavement with all the gravity of discarded pie and chips; squashed 

stake and kidney with a trickle of gravy.

Me and my bruises will meet you later down the pub, 

knock it out cheap, divvi-up for at least a bag each, then rush 

home for a real self loathing treat.

© 2007. P.A.Levy

First published by Writing Raw 2011