iBlonde

molotov cocktails

high heeled expletives

napalm hot 

primed and ready

i am your conception the

glossy purr perfection 

blonde bombshell

now be careful not to go off

in my hands

SPLAT!

then there’s the tension

the trepidation of

a booby-trapped kiss

from a lover you know will

break your heart into little bits

(time and time again bomb)

but in his arms

an atomic reaction

and when he looks into my eyes

he sees my history

documented into a dolby surround 

soundtrack of him telling me

i’m beautiful i fall 

head first

in the fermenting odour of poor 

judgement

but never mind all that

he took my number

POW! 

© 2013  by  iDrew

First published by Black Mirror  2014

Caught By The Short and Curlys

Contemptuous look from my reflection

provides all the recommended 

daily dosage of self derision, 

or in other words

just desserts, let it all come crashing down; 

I’ve fucked-up, 

again.

(A feral 

earring. Confirmation artefact; hallmarked 

proof of my deceit.)

Circumstantial archaeology and gossip. 

She was such a small mistake, 

a sluttish little size eight. 

Let’s talk about this.  Please.

There’s vengeance in those dagger sharp eyes 

honed and Maybelline underlined.  Lashes flick-whip. 

Tirades of obscenities from lush kissable lips, 

then I face the cold shoulder as if straight from the fridge 

(isn’t that an omen about serving revenge). 

In the pit of your silence; 

I stumble,

fall head long onto broken promises. 

Onto words that cut, that slice,

that hang in the air like a damning curse.

I’m dangling 

by my own sweet nothings.

© 2007  by P.A.Levy

First published by Kerouac's Dog

iVirus

home early from work

me boyfriend was sitting on the sofa

watching tv with a pair

of me knickers from the laundry basket

on his face i screamed wtf

he claimed given the present virus epidemic

he needed a mask but couldn’t find one

d i y supermarkets and chemists all sold out

thought me gusset would do the job

and yer stiffy i coyishly quizzed

he deeply inhaled and in a casual

matter of fact way as if claiming sanctuary

odour de fanny

fancy finishing me off babe

he daemonly replied with

a glint like russell brand

yeah you be sick boy - pervy sick

consider yerself

discharged

© 2020  iDrew

Playing Dead

standing in a queue to collect our costumes a chorus 

line smiling (what you grinning at lad)

on parade (smarten up) chest proud

(right two three

and turn two three)

we felt like dancing girls

only ‘till christmas it’ll be a pantomime (i think 

we were the arse end of a cow) a tour of france

a song and laugh as we waved from the train

just time to to fix bayonets then be home again to sing 

of goodwill to all men on earth     

roast chestnuts    

holly wreaths and a mistletoe kiss

we acted out our orders leaving a script to loved ones

tucked into the sand bags of the pits before

stepping on to the boards for our matinee performance

the conductor lifted his baton

in full voice we charged crying with stage fright

into the footlights of the winter sun and an overture 

of machine guns

we walked tall 

centre stage

into no mans’ land

and the clapping artillery and the front row’s aim

no star performers

no headline acts just haig’s troupe 

with a cast of thousands

(cue) mortar applause

(cue) poppy bouquets

then the final curtain falls

© 2006  P.A.Levy

First published by Forward Poetry for In A Flanders Field Anthology  2014

Godfather Rap

call’s come in from hollywood precinct

douglas fairbanks jr yer lazy mother fucker

get on the case

find sylvia sydney

that slut’s in trouble 

again

she’s dipped a sneaky looking no-mark

got the jackpot with a handful of rocks

but that waster was a george raft grafter

yer hear what i’m saying

he gonna be fucked right off

that bitch got his property

and now he’s gotta do

what a mother fucker’s gotta do

and word on the street is already out

george wants respect and his crack back

that bitch is a lump of dead meat apocalypse

he’s got a shiny nine millimetre

and he’s gonna fuck her up 

good and proper tragically

meanwhile 

douglas fairbanks jr is chasing shadows

up his own asshole

he’s gonna be two years in traffic

after this fiasco

sylvia knows she’s in deep shit

sees veronica lake to call in a favour 

they go way back 

when they were both lap dancers

all she needs is somewhere 

to lie low until the coast is clear

the heat is off

and here’s the steamy romantic bit

sitting on the bed is humphrey bogart

smoking spliff

and he’s thinking she’s no lauren becall

- but i’ll still give her one

her eyes met his 

she prays he’ll fuck her brains out

so she sheds tears and spills the plot

lets him finger her

to whet his appetite

humphrey finds george in some two bit joint

puts a cap in the part his brain was at

and he and sylvia drive off into the sunset

in a knocked off range rover

dr dre bass booming out the stereo

© 2009. P.A.Levy

First published by Curbside Splendor  2012

iPetition

my flat mate gemma

has become a right little

eco warrior

she’s gonna write

to our MP tomorrow

ask him questions about

landfill and fossil fuels

and do we need more runways

more motorways

green belt building

nuclear power stations

she wants to know

if his vision 

is of a concrete nation

i didn’t know you could do that

you know

write to yer MP

and ask him stuff

so i’m gonna write 

‘cos i wanna find out

why the cosmetics industry

has this strange obsession

to make shower gels

and hair conditioners 

with a spunk like resemblance

© 2008 iDrew

First published by Bad Robot  2012

License to Thrill

in the bar at the hotel copulate 

it’s late

sipping a martini that’s been shaken

(mini art) he notices 

a beautiful blonde temptress 

all alone

sipping a cocktail

tempted he purrs over to her

with a cocksure swagger

hi my name’s bond

james bond

behind her smile she’s thinking

he’s well fit and i certainly fancy a bit

pleased to meet you mr bond

she replied

my name’s a go-go 

slut a go-go

but please call me slut

she said she smiled 

uncrossed then re-crossed her legs 

sharon stone style

the grating sound of friction

caused by nylon brushing nylon 

aroused james more than a little

can i buy you a stiff drink

he asks

oh james

slut gasps

i don’t think we have time for a drink

we’d best get straight down to the fucking

a brief encounter with you spies

usually means the blonde tragically dies

well 

his eyebrows said

let’s get undercover shall we … 

my room …i’ll order champagne

then show you what we in her majesty’s 

secret service call my weapon 

of untold pleasure

oh james 

slut sighs

you’re such a cunt

© P.A.Levy  2010

First published by Crab Fat 2015

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

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

‘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