iCandy

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

effervescently

believe

sweet as …

© 2013  iDrew

First published by Screeching Owl. 2015

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

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