Wednesday, March 27, 2019








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

Monday, March 11, 2019





                    



                                  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