Polly’s Train of Thought

Polly’s thoughts run like a night train thriller, 

it’s the time that drives her crazy. 

Time spent on wasted kisses

time spent on unfulfilled wishes. 

A bottle of wine but only one glass, 

the mirror laughs; “I told you so”. 

So pride comes before a fall.  

Polly’s been pushed through glass 

she’s shattered 

as if those days never mattered.  

Crashlanded.  Smashed to pieces. 

All the king’s horses away at the races.  

Bin bags stuffed with dead flowers

 

and photographs of hollow laughter, 

for ever-after seemed to last 

no time at all.  Another shift 

behind drawn curtains wondering when happiness 

upped and vanished: it’s escaped 

and on the run down the mascara trail. 

True what she heard, alone in the dark, 

whispers full of talk talk talk. 

Malicious gossip 

about her miscarried marriage

and how the wheels 

came off that precious carriage, 

splintered to thousands of fragments; 

she’s fractured. Broken promises 

can’t be mended with Prozac glue.

Couplet fatigue; there’s cracks on the track. 

Scratch. The songs of romance have failed.

But she’s in another world; 

silent heart ache.  

Poor Polly: terminally derailed.

©2006 P.A.Levy

First published by  Aireings  10/04/09 - 21/06/09

 

iReligion

as i took off my knickers

he said jesus so beautiful

and yet

if christ was really my cunt

a holy trinity of

fingered licked and fucked

how i’d pray every night

for a sinner   

to totally nail me

oh god

oh my god 

oh yes 

oh cum all ye faithful

joyful and triumphant

i’m crucifuxed

and in heaven above 

… and now for the second coming

© 2011  iDrew

First published by Punk Globe

 

Meadow Rape

Angelica standing tall above 

the whispers of the rye grass,

Songs of ragwort ripped by unseen lovers 

wrapped in nectar scented passion. 

Come the morning, 

tears of scattered dew 

fall among the loosestrife 

and lady’s bedstraw folded 

into shapes of kisses; 

meadowsweet.

Oxeye daisy waiting, eyebright watches,

bees hum their favourite melody; 

cornflower blue, 

like poppy based jazzmen 

playing a song without a tune.

* * * * *

Angelica standing tall above 

the whispers of the rye grass,

mouse-ears listen to the gossip; 

the tractor’s coming,

as well as men 

in cement stained boots 

stomping all over 

barefoot laughter.  

In Primrose Walk and Cowslip Mews 

all is now forgotten 

about those sad long-lost forget-me-nots.

Harebells (unheard) chime 

in the fading light of summertime, 

with winter’s skies all concrete clouds 

but if you listen carefully, 

reflective in the stream 

you can hear the willow weep:

‘When will the waterboatman 

come back to me?’

© 2006 P.A.Levy

First published by Puffin Circus 2009