Achievement

My boss asked me:

“Charlotte, what is it you hope

to achieve?”

Which reminded me of

a magazine I was reading 

as apparently I achieve

orgasms.

Oh well done you!

Never mind that I’m a wife, mum,

cook, cleaner, nurse, wage earner,

teacher, bank manager, PR consultant,

official bedtime story teller

supposedly with my own career.

Forget that:

well done for coming.

A fantastic achievement

award yourself an indulgent chocolate.

© 2009 Charlotte De'Ath

First published by Granny Smith Magazine 2011

 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

 

Don’t Let The Bed Bugs Bite

Night strummed a battered acoustic,

sitting back in a rocking chair on the porch

playing the blues to a birdsong lament;

last post to the passing day, 

and it passed

to the sound of children 

saying their goodnight prayers:

just in time ….

here comes the moon peeping 

through lace thin clouds 

with a glint 

intent at mischief

creating sinister silhouettes. 

Night rustles a frou-frou

out on the prowl, chiffon whispers 

into tree top ears as bushes gossip

on a cooling breeze;

for darkness is a predatory beast

who preys on wild purple thoughts

and flights of fancy.

©2007 P.A.Levy

First published by Read This  #9 July 08

 iCooper Clarke

yet again fucking rush i’m fucking late

‘cos i got drunk stoned shagged on a hot date

in a tiz i’m going fucking beserk

spilt me cuppa all down me fucking skirt

forgot to iron me crap fucking top

that fucking says i fucking work

from nine to fucking six o’clock

in quidland

me fucking wholemeal toast is fucking burnt

me fucking hangover’s banging proper fucking hurts

the fucking radio’s a moronic drone 

can’t recall where the fuck’s me fucking phone

me keys me keys shit where the fuck’s me keys

now me brain’s got a memory disease

just as well i ain’t paid to think

just look cute act like an air hostess

in quidland

the fucking boss thinks it’s a bit of fun 

to lay his sweaty paws upon my bum 

all fucking grins when brushing passed my tits

i’ll fucking slap the pervy git 

i’ll fucking kick ‘im in his nuts

i’ll fucking tell me fucking bloke

who’ll fucking mash ‘im to a pulp

all fucking blood and fucking guts 

‘round the back

of quidland

this fucking place ain’t worth a fucking poke

the fucking pay is one sick fucking joke

you can fucking stick this shit fucking job

i’ve more than had e-fucking-nuff

i just don’t give a fucking toss

when i walk out it’s quidland’s loss

i’ll get a job

in top shop

© 2009  iDrew

First published by  Work  19/02/18

Gateways and Colourways

I’ll meet you under the monkey puzzle tree

and we can drink a can or two

smoke some weed, draw the world

then paint it by our own invented numbers.

I think we should spray-paint

the pampas grass this year, bright purple

to clash with the schemes of these houses

I detest that everything is colour co-ordinated

in this part of town.

I remember that time when we swapped

all the front gates around, and in the morning

they all came out dressed in their designer daywear;

speechless as in horror show,

bewildered as in scratching their heads and their arses.

But at least they actually talked to each other,

albeit meaningless dribble; lawns and weather,

haute couture mannequin expressions,

and can I have my gate back please,

sorry, and thank you,

and so very nice to meet you at last.

I still don’t see why they had to phone

those silly boys in blue, no one was harmed

and nothing was damaged.

So what if we unhinged a few gateways

onto different horizons,

we weren't the ones promising false yellow.

We glitter; discarded sequins snagged

on the white nylon lace frou frou of suburbia.

So God bless the Queen,

the neat green hedges, the Daily Mail

and the pretty pink maids all in a row.

From the best china service

ladies that lunch sip magnolia opinions

(do have another slice of angel cake)

never mentioning the home-made

Shakespearian dramas,

or the empty milkbottles stranded on doorsteps

with castaway messages beginning:
‘to my darling milkman’.

© 2007 P.A.Levy

First published by Open Wide Magazine 2010

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

iBaroque

my dearest elizabeth returned

home from manchester disappointed that

the hacenda had closed

something to do with new factory acts

she had only gone for 

a few new tracks and

some of doctor johnson’s vocabulary pills

but alas it was not to be

so she was back home with me in

the candle gloom doing girly things

playing with our hair needlepoint and

giggling without a care

we had drunk three bottles of tesco’s cider

fantising that if lord nelson was still alive

he would capture for us a small island 

concievably he could invade ibzia in a 

day or even in his lunch hour then sit back 

with a brandy soaked laugh and a big fat cigar

studying neuvoux riche investment portfollios

with which we could build space and passion 

in the creamfields 

for fun in the sun away from our routines

of tedious teas and charity deeds

to a place where we could step out 

and be truly carefree

not stuck in smokey london playing charades

in rhythm with grime

© 2014  by iDrew

First published  Picaroon Poetry  23/03/16