iBag

i was getting an eggy sarnie and an 

apple from m&s for me lunch

queing at the checkout behind

an old doris with her

biscuit odour and heavy over

coat even though it wasn’t cold

there was me in a little 

cotton summer dress

she had oven ready meals

tins of soup and tuna on the conveyor belt

and asked the checkout girl for

a bag for life

i thought what’s the point of that

she looked eighty

if a day

the old biddy noticed my lunch

smiled at me insisting i should buy

a beef stew with dumplings apparently

they’re very good

i told her i was a veggie

but you’re so skinny my dear she said

yeah ok thanks for the confidence boost

i considered putting that bag for life over

her head

a bag for the life of an old bag

but then

revenge is a dish best served without 

jacob’s cream crackers

you young things are so thin

and showing all that flesh

weren’t like that in my day

well i’m getting by thank you very much

getting my boy five-a-day portions i lied

wanting to shock by being all sluttish

but with a sweet old lady 

false teeth smile she said

good for you girl

if i could have my time again i’d be 

a right dirty cow

being good’s dead boring then before

you know it a decent shag will bust

yer hip and what with the n-h-s waiting

list i tell yer girl

you go for it

© 2012 iDrew

first published by Twenty Something Press  2012

Hang-ups

Still the same old hang-ups:

storm-proof body warmer

extra thick gloves, 

snagged wooly scarf

coming undone

with all manner of insecurities 

straggling on the coat rack

in the corner of the room

where I’ve hung my shadow 

for treason, drawn and quartered

without reason. Now he hangs

about in all four corners 

dispiritedly dissolving into melancholia,

conducting a cat gut psychopathic string quartet

in tune with wind warped radio crooners;

(twisting, yeah twisting, twisting the night away,

yeah we’re twisting …)

and so I’m left to my own time bomb devices

daredevil open the throttle straight into sunlight.

Trust me to have a super ego hero 

no good at flying  

so when the chords crash 

and the tension music unexplainably

misses a beat

if I scream, who will come to rescue me?

Still the same old screw-ups:

a wall of smiling photographs  

once exposed from negatives.

An invisibly supported shelf

for my self-help support paperbacks.

A mirror in the bathroom

please don’t freak - sing the song

in the morning as you brush your teeth. 

Happy tunes before I see I,

and my shadow always lurking 

not far behind.

© 2006 P.A.Levy

first published by Poetry Warrior  2009

                    

                                  The Ophelia Syndrome

(the miss haversham scenario)

on the suburban stained mattress

of a semi-detached bed

her life from little girl to widow 

cut short 

comes to a spinster end

and all because he just had to find out

what taste was on natasha’s lips 

inhale her cunt’s hot glowing scent

and how well his cock would fit

inside natasha slut with golden hair

handmade tits 

and long long barbie legs 

(the duties of a bridesmaid)

i laid down on the reedy bed

next to the bride full of bubbly turpentine 

who shot her bridegroom down in flames 

and still in her meringue dress

wails behind the cobweb veil

waltz drunk and dribble wet

she curls up as if to die

(has there ever been such a thing

as a best man)

she didn’t mean anything

was his excuse for the broken things

like the broken scene 

from a glossy magazine

i had to scream at her

not to take this lying down

and so we waited for the river to flow

and the water to rush

garland carry us

on columbines rosemary pansies and rue

i offered her violets

but they withered

crestfallen by the wave that took us out to sea

(the bride rescued and set free)

© 2009 Charlotte De'Ath

first published by Slink Chunk 2014