Monday, October 28, 2019



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

Thursday, October 24, 2019

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

Monday, October 7, 2019



‘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