Marry the New Year

Wedded veil white 

covers cold 

morning light with 

lace whispers of 

frozen dew.  

Thaw for a promise 

may bestow 

past the present 

time rings hollow, 

betrothed 

to ice nights.  

  

Borrow the hope 

of sap rising 

short days passing, 

creeks agéd 

away, 

rusts rolled gold 

to tin 

  

Here lies  

the old year, 

a kiss on her blue  

lips, 

an elegy for yesterdays 

now buried; 

three cheers.

©2007 P.A.Levy

First published by Decanto   JUNE 09

 

 Family Secrets 

This is an avenue or maybe a crescent,

tree lined with coiffeured privet hedges, 

a rectangular lawn Father manicures

with up and down stripes 

every Sunday morning 

before, as habit dictates, he prunes the roses 

a-hum with Elgar and Vaughan Williams.  

During a worker’s tea break 

he assimilates rich tea biscuits 

to digest theories that the loss of Empire 

is relative to a loss of standards, or faith, 

or knowing one’s place, or some other 

variation to the enigma. Mother Dear stays 

behind the net curtains, made to measure 

from Marks and Spencer’s, bakes cakes,

brews Earl Grey tea or percolates Brazilian 

coffee, flicks through glossy style magazines

to keep in the know about the next must have

big thing.  Shines the house with beeswax, polishes

the silverware with Johnson's, sings Elaine Page

as she waltzes with the upright 

in this temple where everything is sparkling antibacterial

The dinning room-come-through lounge Some things not found on display:

gallery proud, rich in family history:  Set of three flying ceramic ducks 

display cabinets of Royal Worcester,       for the wall, the pin-art abstract 

shining hall marked Georgian silver. that once hung in the hall. 

A pair of landscape water-colours Chrome plated bonbon trays

by a lesser known Victorian artist, and crocheted sardines, cross stitch 

a comforting tick tock tick tock cushion of the Hay Wain scene, 

from the carriage clock, London maker, Spanish donkey, Eiffel Tower, 

centre stage on the mantelpiece. ‘we’ve been to Disneyland’

Solid silver candelabra, arms out baseball cap, plastic pink flowers, 

stretched across         cute porcelain kittens, mirror backed 

the dining room’s mahogany table, sconces that came from Thailand, 

and everything from bowls of fruit, Prince Charles Lady Di wedding

vases, objet d’art to wine glasses, portrait mug, fishwife verbals or even 

carefully positioned nestling on   dropped haiches (take your elbows 

 pretty pretty paper doilies                              off the table)                                                                                         

Then there’s the wedding day picture, Images that do not appear include:

caught in confetti rain outside St Peter’s photographs of Great Granddad’s 

and the formal group shot, all of which lungs in the mud of the Somme,

seemed so terribly important to be his arms and legs somewhere

in the correct order, wouldn’t do, in Belgium.  Granddad in his uniform

wouldn’t do at all if ‘cheese’ was said eating a pork pie at the liberation

and the best man was standing of Belsen, Grandma Charlotte’s GI 

next to the vicar’s daughter. black lover cheek to cheek at a dance

Oh! look, there’s Mother Dear in Cheltenham. Father at Cambridge

and Father too in Rome before reciting Betjamin and Auden, inhaled

the children were born.         once - never quite been the same since.

Proud photographs of son Timothy,         Mother wearing a roll neck jumper 

now at Cambridge reading business,         on a CND rally

phones every weekend to ask for cash marching through High Holborn.

hasn’t quite started his fiscal class. Wedding day laughter caught on film,

Then there’s pretty Evie as captain holiday snaps of happy days

of the school hockey team, now she’s just ice cream smiles, sand castle flags,

turned sixteen and prefect perfect, vino, almost smell the sun tan oil. 

in line for straight ‘A’s, set to follow Timothy wrestling

big brother down the Cam in a punt, with his school friend Justin.

maybe something to do with law Evie off her face,

or even as a medical student. at her first illegal rave.

Upstairs, in the private world, There are certain things  

a French walnut master bed  that Mother Dear keeps quiet.

dressed in white embroidery anglais, Like Mother’s little helper isn’t the lady 

crowned by a bleached muslin canopy, that ‘does’ but comes as a pill,

and of course, a tasteful frilly valance, she has prozac love.  She had told

with extra added cushions to flirt the doctor life’s not treated

with the idea of glamour.  Her wardrobe her too well of late, well

preserved in an aspic of reverence, the last twenty years at any rate.

cocktail dresses dressed in cellophane It’s the pressures from the past

kept still and ever so ever so quiet, moving in to form a depression,

designer evening gowns she has never told anyone 

expensive outfits she’s hardly worn, about the adoption.  It remains

look back at her through velvet her whisper, her rumour, 

boredom, look back at her with scorn. her black cloud that hovers,   

Sensuous lingerie, that froths more than twenty years on,

and foams in a scented drawer, maternal missings threaten, 

yet never sees the light of day, will it want the lie

or night, anymore.  She can’t that it was conceived out of passion,

even make up satisfaction, can’t fake or raped by her Father after a business

orgasms when there’s no action, function in Hendon.  On top of this stress

so she lays awake and escapes she’s healing a broken heart

into the pile of books after neighbour Sarah ended

on her bedside cabinet.  Pages groaning their wonderfully sordid afternoon

with romantic friction        romance.  These days

and heart stopping hoaxes, she pretends a lot,

until in the dark         and feigning migraines wins time

she’s all aglow with longings. alone with her nine inch friend.

His suits hang sombre still, and a mass Father has some secrets too,

of white shirts like queuing ghosts, when alone in the house there’s 

ties folded and catalogued by colour, a suitcase cleverly hidden

pressed underpants, top pocket where he keeps his evening dress

handkerchiefs. There are outfits and his high heeled shoes.

for the golf club, very jazzy, There’s a Mini Mouse outfit 

and casual wear for the firm’s casual with a wig and ribbon, he’s ventured out

pub outings, he considers these ever so in that, well as far as the garden. 

slightly risky, a daring hint There’s also lots of leather,

of being trendy.  As for bedtime and self abuse is so his pleasure,

reading, inducement into the world he even thinks that nipple clamps

of dreams, with Accountant’s Weekly should be available on the NHS.

or some tiresome company’s Accessorises his ball bags with bulldog

annual report, for his turn over clips, enjoys catching his foreskin 

is strictly profit based with the only in his zip.  Wears an anal bung

stimulation coming from a rise to Sunday dinner, so important

in interest rates.         the family all sit down together. 

Timothy’s room is almost a shrine, Timothy has tried to say;

nothing is ever moved or touched. ‘Mum, Dad, I’m totally gay’

Yellowing posters of now fading instead he leaves little clues, 

rock stars, an electric guitar (unplugged). like the protective box in his cricket bag

His cricket bag sits and creases, that has Justin’s name on it,

the season is not for another the tube of KY in his bedside

term yet.  Piles of summer clothes cabinet, or the extensive stash gay porn

precision folded, waiting expectantly in his closet.  It would seem,

for sunshine and good times some topics aren’t up 

at weekends in the Brighton clubs, for discussion, not even 

and tucked-away Chelsea pubs. a change in career, moving 

CDs and books in alphabetical order away from banking 

somethings are written in DNA. to mince about in fashion.

Sweet Evie, hormones stirring Evie’s secrets are locked away

with teenage rebellion, a room full in a schoolgirl’s doodles of hearts 

of chaos, a bed full of urges. and coded squiggles.

Smiles from rock stars in ‘let’s You can search all you want

do it’ poses, an antique dressing table you won’t find her hymen,

covered with make-up explosions. that’s gone; not missed

A carpet of clothes, empty wardrobe, a long forgotten fumble.

hangers are a free thought; Es in a vitamin bottle, weed

they go where they roam.  Abandoned stash in her fluffy pencil case.

mugs are a fungi statement; sometimes She seems to be learning

spilled.  Stains are always another issue. how to hide modern life; a box  

There are scarves and shawls with fringes, with a cunning false bottom  

shimmering jewellery, just hanging out and disappearing a packet of condoms. 

looking Bohemian, although in truth God bless Blue Peter; thank heaven 

it’s just ordinary mess and disorderly. for getting shagged and wasted. 

A guest room         A hobby room, where 

growing with cheeky chintz, Mother and Sarah performed certain

a lonely wardrobe wanting to be used, positions.  Father masturbates whilst

a single bed eager to help with a dream, sniffing Evie’s trainers.  Timothy

chest of drawers with a Gideon   first swallowed school friend Justin.

and a nice view overlooking the garden. Evie fucked Gavin, Nigel and Jim.

There is a place for everything. Everything has it’s place.

                                                Just don't dig-up the patio

©2007  P.A.Levy   

First published by   Unlikely 2.0  2008

 

iStiff 

you prefer me dead 

kiss 

in french

my beautiful cadaver

stroke

my golden head retaining  

metallic hues ice blue barren eyes

unsmiling

as usual i’m aware 

your stare will be upon

my pert little tits 

inert 

unresponsive

it doesn’t matter anymore

by now i have

lost all ambition of movement

on a stainless steel bed 

a slab slut 

magnificent former resistance

sluices 

under the weight of your advances

unable to oppose you from breaking my

frigid impediment

or stealing my heart to have

for your tea 

oven chips and baked beans with

a full-bodied coca-cola

romantic dinner for

one

candle-lit

over my dead body

i used to say

now that day has come

with every passing rohypnol 

comedown 

© 2014  iDrew

First published by  Wordland (Monster Book For Girls) 2014

 

 BaRking NatiVity 

 

We boy astrologers search for Venus 

every night; constellation gazers yeah! 

that’s us, eyeing up those council estate 

slappers laser backlit into dancefloor 

angels, ultraviolet delight round the 

back alley, skirt up left leg wrap; pant!  pant!  

shake down zip it up quick she’s that dun-in 

on Alcopops gonna puke: laters luv 

probs give yer a bell next week.  Another 

less than immaculate conception.  Mary-

Jane never heard from Joe again.  Sixteen 

years young with a kick brat inside ‘er, sits

all alone princess of Barking Towers;

high; twenty fourth floor of a planner’s wet 

dream complete with many en suit piss puddles 

in the stairwell, crack dens in the car park;

not there on the blueprint of a less than 

immaculate concept.  When kick brat want 

out Mary-Jane ain’t got a Scooby Doo,

the lifts are bust.  Calls for an ambulance;

no-go location, from clouds to dole-lands

a big drop destination.  Panic town.  

She calls her main man King Skag with two mates 

from East Ham and Forest Gate on the A13 

following tailgate lights east bearing gifts 

of chocolate vodka and pain relief

clambered into her flat in time to help 

with cooking hits and building bongs to make it 

flow for Mary-Jane and her boy she will 

call: Bastard Son Of Him (or Baz for short).

Joe’s been told a rumour some stupid slut’s 

put the word out.  Yeah ‘e remembers ‘er 

alright ‘cos she was so sick and also 

the rot she gave his dick so ‘e’s keen to 

put a stop to being bad-mouthed by a 

mare of a one night stand, headed off for 

Barking station when his mate said; “Hey Joe,

where you going with that gun in yer hand?”

© 2007  P.A.Levy

First published by Drylands  2015

 

Home to Roost

off the midnight yawn at st-rat-ford station

        cl-amber out the tube hole

smelling of dust cove-red    electricity

        clinging st-atic

  stub-born like a shadow

stumble into the words of sp-ray can

            poets

that trickle down walls

in sob mas-cara let-ters

and the tags of the disaffected 

  that lay a cl-aim to

   grime parts of graph-ite coloured do-main

wall-f-lower posters flutter but can’t       fly

word on the street all torn and tattered

  as if words ever mattered

jumble of sounds   no-ise

        poor reception

caught in tv aerial tan-gle 

          dream cat-chers

for the thread-bare set-tee acade-mics

un-sybaritic con-crete echoes with calls in

    ob-scene anglo-saxon

under 

amber spot-lights an-other beer bottle

be-comes a thou-sand different diamondesque

t-wink-les 

  against the d-ole grey

that gives the land-scape its stark cut out-line

right     angles

straight lines

con-trasted on street corners

      by b-leached blonde im-migrant whores

who parade curves in colour

shivering in short skirts        e-yes freeze

self-pity

into self-preservation cry-ogenics

dissolving the pretty girl looks

into hero-in reflections

tart lem-on ac-id

and the sulphurous plum-es of burnt match-es

      hold a f-lame to cctv superstars in 

          branded train-ers

boom b-ass boys   fuel injected cruise by

                    looking for the star shine

that seeps from cracked pip-es

searching to find

Nirvana E15

© 2006  P.A.Levy

First published by StepAway  2011

 

New chapbook from Charlotte. Available now.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B08NN63ZFR?pf_rd_r=E8FYZBCMN67DDYV8N0KQ&pf_rd_p=b4721ac4-3a58-4086-93ca-436516f2a16c

 

Growing Pains

Seven screams incendiary

to see her thoughts burnt on hot coals

she weaves her way through the fire

reds and oranges forge allies

to lick the very essence of her youth 

tastes so full of lust and desire

tastes of party frocks

and at the threshold of her paradise

her arms melt 

dancing with old flames 

trying to rescue

precious moments

another scar signs its name across

her sad doll limbs, now weightless

to the pain and ache of burst blisters

aches like a metaphor should, and weeps

a discharge; tears-hope-blood

any of the above

Seven believes it’s all to do with sin

her thoughts are so deliciously wicked

of flowers dying, of poisoned kisses,

and how she lets the blister pus drip

onto her lips until she goes numb 

with all that tomorrow promises

© 2007 P.A.Levy

First published by disentralled  2010

 

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