iCharity

it's a matter of life and death

that's why i'm starting this charity

please send me large donations

as the need for your help 

is a matter of great urgency

i've seen these shoes

oh my god these shoes

are to die for

i've tried them on

and just like cinderella 

they fit only me 

perfectly

but here's the cinders snag

they cost nearly 300 quid

and yet

i need them - or my life is incomplete

i need them - or i just won't be able to breathe

i need them i want them i love them i adore them

or my whole life is just useless 

and i'll self harm with the buckle

from a pair of plastic sandals

so send cash 

please 

to save drew

from the fate of dolcis  

© 2008  iDrew
First published  Twenty Something Press  2012

The Time of Your Life

Somewhere the sound of the ‘tick’ 

and the ‘tock’ can be heard.

The snapping teeth, the laws of movement, 

the metal grind

enslaved into your own lifetime: 

hours have their hands in chains.

To look into a mirror and witness

dying moonbeams sing such sad songs;

pass away unnoticed and are forever gone.

Disappeared into an unnerving 

brittle silence, a creeping whiteness 

that has no sound.

Erratic ebb and flow of agitated breathing 

crashes the baseline 

when a nihilistic heart beat whispers its slow rhythm 

and all you hear are lamentations of your name 

carved in marble; bound by ivy 

to cemetery solemnity.  

The face on the clock; deceitful smile.  

Time is not on your side.

In youth,

gloriole of star bursts silhouetted the romantic

but now the unbuttoned moon 

has snuffed out her starry glints,

and you, embellished by facet fascinations, 

have false hopes blunted 

by cut paste immitations.

Sing along to the choir

that levitates above your head

gravity defying.

The heavy hours. Weight.  Waiting 

for the veiled kiss

of the charnel house dreamers.

Something blue: your lips. 

Something borrowed: happy ever–afters.

Somewhere the sound of the ‘tick’ 

and the ‘tock’ can be heard, 

fixed on a loop under a glass domed coffin.

© 2006  P.A.Levy

First published  2008 by Poetic Diversity

iDrive

on a driving holiday

in the u  s  of  a 

i rented a cadillac 

but on route sixty six

cary grant

crashed into the back

of me 

to make amends

he took me on a road trip

with jayne mansfield

we were having such a blast

laughing our heads off

over isadora duncan’s scarf

© 2009 iDrew

first published MediaVirus 2009

They Don’t Build Cathedrals Anymore

Out of town

we are but strangers in a strange land

with homeless dust drying in our mouths

and disappointment etched 

like claw scars down our cheeks.

Almost horror struck we stared

from behind barbed wire fences

as oxide red skeletons stretched 

up into the cod-scaled greyness. 

Two cranes take to the dance floor 

performing a slow motion tango. 

The beat of blueprints 

synchronizes their movements; 

arms swing angular, all brute force and sweat.

As wonderment pushed grit from our eyes 

we stood 

like corner shop natives

waiting for that moment

when the glass dome was to be set

like a diamond.  We gasped at the thought

that automatic doors would welcome us inside 

to walk upon the marbled floors, 

and to listen to the chorus of cash tills singing: 

“Hallelujah” 

as they exchange all our prayed for dreams 

with credit card receipts; consumer redemption 

available 10 a.m. to 10 p.m., even on Sundays.  

For now we have seen the light, 

nine out of ten of us agree, you have to buy icons

to obtain retail spirituality.

© 2006  P.A.Levy

First published by Social-i  2010 

 iAmbient 

last night 

i fell in love 

with the aphex twin

and i felt the full emotion

of bleeps

and little squiggle noises

as a chord

i collected all the passion laced 

expired breaths 

tokens 

for the dream archive 

in the cupboard

(keepsakes 

of special shiny things

a pressed dead daisy chain

a button 

a kinder toy

old cinema tickets

the kiss i always wanted

from before we met)

last night i fell in love with

you

as you moved inside me

slowly

so 

exquisitely slow 

to goosebump my 

skin 

when we 

laid down 

with the aphex 

twin

©2008 iDrew

First published by 2010

The Office (s)Kills

We performed scenarios and acted out

role reversals on how to answer the phone,

‘cos apparently now you don’t shout:

“WHAT?”

you must talk clearly, preferably

in a brain dead Home Counties accent: 

“Good Morning, how can I help you?”   

Punctuated by rising inflections 

that overflow with inane happiness.

Then we moved on to not throwing coffee

over computer keyboards, although why

you would want to is still quite a mystery.

With all that knowledge to chew over, lunch,

a well needed break.  Spilt coffee over canteen tables 

chatted to our loved ones on mobile phones:

“yeah the teacher bloke is a right wanker,

and this is such a stupid waste of time.”

After lunch, training, yet another lecture

armed with clipboards and coloured pencils

we made notes on how to pick things up, 

objects that is

we’re not talking anything useful

as in a night-club sense:

keep your knees bent and your back straight 

so as not to do yourself an awful mischief.

Then again you never know,

I’ll certainly keep that in mind

round the back of the Palais

Saturday night.

Afternoon tea, which was liberally sprinkled

around the canteen, then such untold excitement 

to be ushered into another lecture,

this time:

how not to get tangled up in machines,

how not to annoy them, or not tease them

with seductively loose clothing 

as they will mangle your flesh,

maybe tear off a limb, turn you into sandwich

spread, or pâté if you’re posh. 

Then you’re fired 

for damaging the hardware.

Now we’re fully qualified, with certificates

to prove it, so when the phone rang I knew

it was time to initiate that training:

“WHAT?” 

but hit by a rush of information, 

things seemed to have got a little jumbled 

and … well it is just possible … I might have 

… kind of … panicked, 

what with being extra eager to impress.

My mouth dried-up.  

My palms went sweaty.

My heart was pounding, 

which could have been due to stress

or even a psycho-illogical illness:

I chopped off your hands, put them neatly 

in the stationary cupboard, filed your fingers 

under ‘D’ for digits.  Lost your ears 

although they could be in the post,

in which case you should have them back

by next Tuesday,

and put your feet, all tidy, in those empty boxes.

Knees bent back straight, OK I admit it, 

I got flustered: but you didn’t exactly help, 

falling to pieces like that.

©2006 P.A.Levy

First published Snakeskin 2010

                                    

Red Sky

The revolution was to be televised live; 

kick off this afternoon.  Sky had bought the rights.  

We sat all comfy relaxing on the sofa 

scoffing the biscuits Garibaldi baked.  

Turned on, tuned in, 

Molotov mixed the drinks; done the shaky thing.  

Trotsky fetched the ice.

  

But we had forgot to turn the clocks back

in time for October’s winter constitution.  

There was a Marx Brothers film still showing 

and Karl, with the bushy beard,  he was singing 

about the proletariat, telling jokes about 

the sanity clause in social contracts.  

We lapped it up like duck soup; 

laughed so much went opiate dizzy, 

except Mao Tse–Tung who kept going on and on 

about this little red book, so we sent him out 

for a long walk to get chow mien and a chop suey. 

A quick word from the Lenin Vodka sponsors 

and it all began.  General Ludd had the plans 

and the spanners, whilst Captain Swing leapt into action 

with the Tolpuddle posse.  But things didn’t quite go 

as anticipated when some street-fighting man, 

having drunk a little too much lager, spewed-up 

on Airstrip One and it all got very messy.

Power cut - the are lights out.

Burston kids providing chaos like St Trinians

miners or minors striking for their rights again. 

Then came the riot police on the pitch, 

they think it’s all over.  

It is now.  

The pubs are open.

Still, we thought it rather cute, that in England 

Trade Unionist took coloured banners for a little stroll, 

whilst in France, heads would roll.

© 2006  P.A.Levy

first published by No Teeth 2009

                         

iEars

i do still fancy yer

course i do

but at times yer a little

well

weird    

take the other night

when we were cuddled up

in the after glow light

of our own warmth

all snug close

yet you seemed so 

distracted

so i said what’s up honey

hoping you were struggling

to find the words to express

just how irresistibly horny

you find me

although if i’m honest i was ready

to hear the old 

it’s not you it’s me speech

or there’s this girl in my office

routine

you said you had this fantasy

believe me honey i was all ears

not a good thing

considering your desire to see 

Betty Boop and Minnie Mouse 

having girl on girl action

listen guy

it would be girl on mouse action

and that’s just so sick 

and the fact you were getting a hard on

just talking about it

makes me wonder

if i shouldn’t do the old

it’s not you it’s me sketch

but it would be you 

all you

no mistake guy 

you’re a little too

weird

© iDrew  2008

first published by the Gut  2009