Check Out Girl Superstar

If the check-out girl labelled Joanne can present a bargain smile
wearing a brown sack uniform, I should at least try. I did. I smiled, but
I lacked conviction, managing to stay indifferent as she coquettishly


slid her fingers up and down my tin of spaghetti hoops; twice.
The pink tip of her tongue tasting pale lipstick with I want some
phone sex ad overtones. Then she said: Do you watch Big Brother?


I love Big Brother, me. It’s my ambition to be in the House
as she flights my items over the scanner, I try and imagine
who in their right mind would turn their telly on to watch

blip blip

Joanne eating her spaghetti hoops, and I think I upset her
when I said Big Brother’s blip and that I never watch it.
She gave me a very odd look. As if I was incomplete.

blip blip

Then for some inexplicable reason the blip, that annoying
electronic grunt like a bored adolescent thanks, just shut up,
not even a whatever. So she wiped the scanner with her sleeve,

but still no blip and then she says: I’ve an X-Factor audition
to go to next month. I can’t really sing but it’ll be a laugh.

More Y than X-Factor I thought. Keen to get home I broke

the ensuing awkward silence by asking her if she should buzz
for assistance. No need she replied, put out that I’d shown no interest
in her telly life, the supervisors will be watching us on CCTV.



©2008 P.A.Levy
First published by No Teeth 2009 (magazine closed)


The Shoreline Pioneer of Washed-Up Beaches

Walking barefoot on driftwood
splinters in my footsteps
lame sole; life infected.
Castaway out here on the border between
the sand and the sea.

With relentless questions
that precariously ride crash waves:
the tide is coming in
fast fast,
swallows exsiccated starfish whole.

Stand fast
my gravel bank seascape defences
all shored-up against
a breach of shingle stories
when surf sounding ‘s’s cascade
into shale surrender.

I’m soaked to the skin with this conspiracy
that tomorrow is always over my shoulder.



©2007 P.A.Levy
First published by Calliope Nerve 2009 (magazine closed)



Two hours from London
and I’m driving with the ghost
of Nick Drake.  I check
the rear view mirror;
still the gorgeous hippy princess
you smile back and say:
“if this is a three
spliff journey, we need
to stop and get some skins,
we’ve only five leaves left.”
No, my enchanted thoughts
this is our Autumn …

it must have been around 1969,
I can clearly visualise your house near
West Ham Park.  Your room
smelt of patchouli, and the scarves and shawls
hanging like cobwebs in a Bohemian tent
hid the damp patches, for it was
always so cold, cuddling up getting stoned
by candlelight until the dark
warmed us.

I might take a small detour 
and pay drive-by homage
to that old Georgian town house
set right back from the road
into its own daunting silhouette.
It’s probably been pulled down
to make way for a new road
or cul-de-sac housing estate.
At the time we weren’t even thinking
about making memories,
now we’ve become archaeology.



©2007 P.A.Levy
First published by Railroad Poetry Project 2011 (magazine closed)


Count On Me To Count On You: AbacUS

We’ve seen each other
twelve times now: so far
we’ve had sex seventeen times,
drunk twenty two bottles of cheap wine
and one bottle of decent stuff
we stole from the bearded bloke
next door
who has claimed, six times to me alone,
to be a statistics boffin
but personally I think eight out of ten
boffins wear false beards
‘cos they don’t want to be brainy
they want to be Father Christmas,
except the mad ones who want to be God.

We’ve done it nine times in your bed,
twice on the bedroom floor,
(although one of those times was when
we fell out of the wardrobe),
once on the dinning room table
and once in the garden shed,
after which I had to remove
two splinters from your bum.
There was the three times on the settee
including when you distracted
me from ‘Match of the Day’
with an extremely slutty
striptease performance,
and once on the stairs
when you suffered carpet burns
and a bruised coccyx.

During all this you’ve
murmured “oh!” fifty seven times,
sighed “oh yes!” thirty five,
shouted “oh my god! yes!” eighty two,
and screamed “no not there!” twice.

We’ve shared five baths, two meals out,
four takeaway pizzas, one vindaloo curry,
watched three films, two nights clubbing,
had nine hundred and sixteen kisses,
cuddled for two hours twelve minutes
and sixteen seconds,
including when I held onto you for forty
seven minutes and twenty seconds whilst
you shed thirty nine tears
but I’ve no idea why. On fifty one occasions
you’ve told me you loved me;
I’ve said ‘I love you’ seventeen times
but who’s counting.


©2008 P.A.Levy
First published by Underground Voices 2009



wow i had this odd dream last night
i was giving alan bennet a blow job
just as he was about to come he said
in his funny little way
i looked up startled
he shot me in the eye

i was then on a cliff top with the duke of gloucester
you know the way dreams have a strange tendency
to cut out the boring bits
of how I got there
without a blind dog or white stick and
why i should be with a character from king lear
(please let me be cordelia please let me be cordelia)

we was both stumbling around
crashing into each other like bumper cars
but there was a gang of lemmings
just hanging out
chewing gum
acting all tuff
one of them says
why don’t you two piss off and find yer own cliff top

the lemmings then unexpectantly jumped
(no strings attached)
into a red arrows style formation
only to re-emerge as alan bennet again
which made me shiver
would you like a cup of tea
i’ve some home made scones that mother baked
fresh this morning with lashings of cream

oh my days
i pray
i’m never so drunk as to dream of
giving alan bennet a blow job



©2010 iDrew
First published by Fry Your Friends 2012 (magazine closed)



i was getting an eggy sarnie and an
apple from m&s for me lunch
queing at the checkout behind
an old doris with her
biscuit odour and heavy over
coat even though it wasn’t cold
there was me in a little
cotton summer dress

she had oven ready meals
tins of soup and tuna on the conveyor belt
and asked the checkout girl for
a bag for life
i thought what’s the point of that
she looked eighty
if a day

the old biddy noticed my lunch
smiled at me insisting i should buy
a beef stew with dumplings apparently
they’re very good
i told her i was a veggie
but you’re so skinny my dear she said
yeah ok thanks for the confidence boost
i considered putting that bag for life over
her head
a bag for the life of an old bag
but then
revenge is a dish best served without
jacob’s cream crackers

you young things are so thin
and showing all that flesh
weren’t like that in my day
well i’m getting by thank you very much
getting my boy five-a-day portions
i lied
wanting to shock by being all sluttish
but with a sweet old lady
false teeth smile she said
good for you girl
if i could have my time again i’d be
a right dirty cow
being good’s dead boring then before
you know it a decent shag will bust
yer hip and what with the n-h-s waiting
list i tell yer girl
you go for it



©2012 iDrew
First published by Twenty Something Press 2012 (magazine closed)



i had to go to bereavement
‘cos these last few days
i’ve cried so much
i’ve not been able
to concentrate on anything or
eat i've not put on any slap 
can't even be bothered to get
out of bed

this has to be the worst
i’ve ever felt
(didn’t even feel this bad
when i was dumped by jason)
i’m so totally gutted
at this devastating loss
and I know it's such a cliché that you
don’t know what you’ve got
‘till it’s gone
well it's truly gone
only to be replaced with

i’d give anything
just to get my precious little
smooth slender touch me
iPhone back 'cos
my fingers and thumbs ache
with idleness
and just how am i expected to survive
without an app to tell me i’m alive



©2011 iDrew
First published by Boy Slut 2013