iHungover

at night

al chohol is my best mate

he makes me laugh and dissolves

away my inhibitions but

come the morning come the sunlight

moody al becomes my nemesis

makes me suffer for

drinking tea tortures me by taking

an axe and split-

ting my head forcing 

nasty evil daylight 

into my eyes as shameful

memories slowly crawl into my brain

no work today i’ll stay 

in bed i’ll phone

my boss to say i’m ill

the icky girly thing

i think in future i’m better off to

stick with spliff and pills

© 2015. iDrew

First published by  Workzine 2016

 iSocks  

my bed socks are poetry 

my bed a womb in afterglow

my toes like curled embryos

my position foetal as i lay alone

my love plan was made in taiwan

my broken sleep spooked and un-dreamt

my whispered longings now never said 

my dresses look like ghosts of me

my epitaph reads ‘died unnaturally’   

prematurely

my haunted heart has memory

my bed socks are knitted poetry

i’m cold

come back my love and cuddle me

© 2013  iDrew

First published by PinkGirlInk  2015

 

Feeding a Habit In Woolworths (pick and nick) - circa 1984  

We were both full of self loathing in East Ham

High Street.  Actually, thinking it over, we should have swapped 

this disposition with each other, a psychological exchange 

and mart: me hating you, you hating me; clinically healthier.

  

I’m out in the cold kicking a crushed Benson and Hedges 

packet against Woolies window, waiting, kicking my heels, forever 

waiting for you to come out, a radio or two under yer coat, pockets 

stuffed with lavender piss perfumes and gold coloured rings.  

I’ll be ready to stumble into the cod-faced security guard floundering 

at yer soles until me and he collide and we both take a tumble, hit

the pavement with all the gravity of discarded pie and chips; squashed 

stake and kidney with a trickle of gravy.

Me and my bruises will meet you later down the pub, 

knock it out cheap, divvi-up for at least a bag each, then rush 

home for a real self loathing treat.

© 2007. P.A.Levy

First published by Writing Raw 2011

 

 

 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