iAngel

with a tinsel halo

and a pair of little feather wings

butter wouldn’t melt

dressed in white

like a choir

we were singing naff pop songs

as loud as we could

snaking our way

along the high street

pretending we were dead good

lined up

on the guest list

we sounded like a latin prayer

mia donna christina 

emma victoria alice emma

rachel drew hannah gemma

holly joanne holly may sophie 

ami 

but after the club shut 

we were that dun in on holy water

hannah had a gutter wee

down the side street by monsoon

donna caught a whiff of the body shop

threw up on their doorstep

she almost passed out outside waterstones

sat on the pavement taking deep breaths

legs wide open

joanne 

for no apparent reason

tossed a burger

at the window of jane norman

holly had dun her first pill

was electric and sparklin’ and buzzin’

all loved-up with everyone

one of the emma’s gave it large

about some flash buff bloke

fingered for a phone number

and a bottle of doubleewekaydee blue

alice reckoned she’d given some lad

a shuffle in his pants

slut rachel fessed she went 

so much further 

than that

becci’s hen night was well wicked

shame becci vanished with the stripper

wasn’t around to witness

christina flashing her tits at some fit copper

even though we’d forgotten

most of the words        

we was still singing robbie’s angels

with our voices ever so saintly and sweet

that angelic

are we

©2010  iDrew

First published by  Beatnik 2010

Busted

Big shout 

for the boys in blue 

who act all Keystone

when they bust down me door 

charge in

under the influence of

heavy duty shots; 

caffeine, testosterone and whiskey
a-go go. Gone.

In my home like a burglar, 

rooting though drawers and cupboards.  

Stomping around in size twelve boots 

shouting the odds,

throwing me stuff all over the gaff.

Even trying to pocket 

the free gift

from the corn flakes packet.

Bit over the top 

for a couple of pills and a bag of weed, 

and I’d really like to see 

the training manual

that instructs on tipping

the bin out over the kitchen floor

so you can go a bit Sherlock, 

investigate any vitamin deficiencies.

Then one of them charmingly says: 

“OK scum! 

Before we start cracking heads

where’s yer proper stash.”

Nice try cuntstable,

might have been a plan

before you carried out acts 

of mass vandalism.

I bet it’s all please and pardon me

in the leafy posh avenues.

So a big shout 

for those boys in blue,

they could have been mechanics, or salesmen,

plumbers, electricians or even chefs,

instead they chose

to wear a tit on their head.

© 2009  P.A.Levy

First published 2010 by Bring The Ink

‘How To Philosophize With A Hammer’

(or down in the East End with Niezsche.)

Me and Phil Mitchell, you know the geezer, 

face like a boiled clam, lobster colour 

and steaming, were ‘aving a few jars down

the Queen Vic, chatting about this, chatting 

about that, when I notice his ‘ead starts

ballooning into some grotesquely pink 

bubble gum bauble all set to go: BANG! 

Laughably ‘e concludes it’s because          

‘e went to uni and ‘e needs to express

his ideas on Jean-Paul Sartre and Nietzsche. 

I thought Chelsea had splashed the cash again, 

got in some new lads for their pub quiz team,

so not to be out done I mouthed off 

untold praise for the West Ham Academy. 

Slurps on his lager, pulls gargoyle faces,

before going on about reinventing 

treason; claims there’s too much rhyming 

and too few metaphors in the world these days,

blames all our woes on lesbians and gays.

Just then his brother Grant pipes up, moaning, 

fed up, on the look out for a cheap thrill;

so we kicks the shit out of Ian Beale.

After the pub we get the eighty six 

to Stratford, me and Phil ‘ave another 

set to, all ‘cos ‘e reckons that was where 

Shakespeare came from, but I know ‘e were south 

of the river, so says I, that makes ‘im, 

bard or no bloody bard, Millwall and a bit pikey, 

and, let’s face it, for 'im to ‘ave  crossed 

the Thames; what for, it’s just so unlikely.

Now Grant’s getting very bored by all this 

old rabbit.  At the bus stop ‘e lays into

some fart-faced queue jumping hag.            

Her shopping hits the deck and there’s apples

and pears rolling about in the gutter,

‘er bag gets split, there’s claret and piss

all over the shop.  There’s even some talk

of the old bill coming, blue lights flashing.

And on top of all that, the bus driver 

gets all in a right ol’ strop.  Just ‘cos we 

ain’t got nufink smaller than an tenner.

So we legs it off up to the Boleyn.

Downs a portion of pie and mash with green 

liquor. Then we ‘ave a little sing song, 

a few choruses of:‘Bubbles’ sat around 

the World Cup statue of Hurst an’ Peters 

holding aloft the late great Bobby Moore.

Feeling all claret and blue, Grant reckons 

I’m blessed to be in the: ‘Twilight of the Idols’.

© 2006  P.A.Levy

first published Stub  2010