Friday, October 23, 2020



as i took off my knickers

he said jesus so beautiful

and yet

if christ was really my cunt

a holy trinity of

fingered licked and fucked

how i’d pray every night

for a sinner   

to totally nail me

oh god

oh my god 

oh yes 

oh cum all ye faithful

joyful and triumphant

i’m crucifuxed

and in heaven above 

… and now for the second coming

© 2011  iDrew

First published by Punk Globe

Tuesday, October 20, 2020


Meadow Rape

Angelica standing tall above 

the whispers of the rye grass,

Songs of ragwort ripped by unseen lovers 

wrapped in nectar scented passion. 

Come the morning, 

tears of scattered dew 

fall among the loosestrife 

and lady’s bedstraw folded 

into shapes of kisses; 


Oxeye daisy waiting, eyebright watches,

bees hum their favourite melody; 

cornflower blue, 

like poppy based jazzmen 

playing a song without a tune.

* * * * *

Angelica standing tall above 

the whispers of the rye grass,

mouse-ears listen to the gossip; 

the tractor’s coming,

as well as men 

in cement stained boots 

stomping all over 

barefoot laughter.  

In Primrose Walk and Cowslip Mews 

all is now forgotten 

about those sad long-lost forget-me-nots.

Harebells (unheard) chime 

in the fading light of summertime, 

with winter’s skies all concrete clouds 

but if you listen carefully, 

reflective in the stream 

you can hear the willow weep:

‘When will the waterboatman 

come back to me?’

© 2006 P.A.Levy

First published by Puffin Circus 2009

Wednesday, September 23, 2020


Don’t Let The Bed Bugs Bite

Night strummed a battered acoustic,

sitting back in a rocking chair on the porch

playing the blues to a birdsong lament;

last post to the passing day, 

and it passed

to the sound of children 

saying their goodnight prayers:

just in time ….

here comes the moon peeping 

through lace thin clouds 

with a glint 

intent at mischief

creating sinister silhouettes. 

Night rustles a frou-frou

out on the prowl, chiffon whispers 

into tree top ears as bushes gossip

on a cooling breeze;

for darkness is a predatory beast

who preys on wild purple thoughts

and flights of fancy.

©2007 P.A.Levy

First published by Read This  #9 July 08

Wednesday, August 19, 2020

 iCooper Clarke

yet again fucking rush i’m fucking late

‘cos i got drunk stoned shagged on a hot date

in a tiz i’m going fucking beserk

spilt me cuppa all down me fucking skirt

forgot to iron me crap fucking top

that fucking says i fucking work

from nine to fucking six o’clock

in quidland

me fucking wholemeal toast is fucking burnt

me fucking hangover’s banging proper fucking hurts

the fucking radio’s a moronic drone 

can’t recall where the fuck’s me fucking phone

me keys me keys shit where the fuck’s me keys

now me brain’s got a memory disease

just as well i ain’t paid to think

just look cute act like an air hostess

in quidland

the fucking boss thinks it’s a bit of fun 

to lay his sweaty paws upon my bum 

all fucking grins when brushing passed my tits

i’ll fucking slap the pervy git 

i’ll fucking kick ‘im in his nuts

i’ll fucking tell me fucking bloke

who’ll fucking mash ‘im to a pulp

all fucking blood and fucking guts 

‘round the back

of quidland

this fucking place ain’t worth a fucking poke

the fucking pay is one sick fucking joke

you can fucking stick this shit fucking job

i’ve more than had e-fucking-nuff

i just don’t give a fucking toss

when i walk out it’s quidland’s loss

i’ll get a job

in top shop

© 2009  iDrew

First published by  Work  19/02/18

Friday, July 17, 2020

Gateways and Colourways

I’ll meet you under the monkey puzzle tree
and we can drink a can or two
smoke some weed, draw the world
then paint it by our own invented numbers.

I think we should spray-paint
the pampas grass this year, bright purple
to clash with the schemes of these houses
I detest that everything is colour co-ordinated
in this part of town.

I remember that time when we swapped
all the front gates around, and in the morning
they all came out dressed in their designer daywear;
speechless as in horror show,
bewildered as in scratching their heads and their arses.

But at least they actually talked to each other,
albeit meaningless dribble; lawns and weather,
haute couture mannequin expressions,
and can I have my gate back please,
sorry, and thank you,
and so very nice to meet you at last.

I still don’t see why they had to phone
those silly boys in blue, no one was harmed
and nothing was damaged.
So what if we unhinged a few gateways
onto different horizons,
we weren't the ones promising false yellow.

We glitter; discarded sequins snagged
on the white nylon lace frou frou of suburbia.
So God bless the Queen,
the neat green hedges, the Daily Mail
and the pretty pink maids all in a row.
From the best china service
ladies that lunch sip magnolia opinions
(do have another slice of angel cake)
never mentioning the home-made
Shakespearian dramas,
or the empty milkbottles stranded on doorsteps
with castaway messages beginning:
‘to my darling milkman’.

© 2007 P.A.Levy
First published by Open Wide Magazine 2010

Thursday, June 25, 2020


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

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


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  
rot away.  


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