<error=terminal>

>enter

>location: hostname > = domain
>path= Options >Options[Key]

>function >welcome home kiss
>source >your lips/hugs/to be in your arms>function=wanted
body:align
body:to accept
pre,code{monospace;*look-change:100%;}
>direction:away

body:misalign[Side Step]
body:reject[Access Denied]

command+control > JUST GO!

<!-- Space loc=TEAR noad -->

var a=arguments,al=a.length;
preloadImages.arguments

>insert >insert image
pre,code{monospace;*face-wrong face:100%;}

var a=arguments,al=a.length;
preloadImages.arguments

wrong face says:
the girl with blonde hair
motel smell
lies about working late
(out drinking with yer mates)

>insert >insert image >with her jpeg1

thrill seeking
buttons undone
thrilled sigh
to talk, dirty talk with tart lipstick
in the curl of cigarette smoke

<meta http-equiv="Content-Type">

wrong face says:
type=slut

>insert >insert image > her again jpeg2

with sweat stink and sleaze grime
and other telltale
signs of unsentimental stains
that will need to be washed at sixty degrees.

>direction:away; >command >PLEASE GO

>select exit >exit
>select quit >quit

>escape

 

 

©2008 P.A.Levy
First published by Ditch 2009

 

Canal Country

Could be an idle river, he said, then went on about
meloncholic willows, water voles, and kingfishers;
the blue flash diving for silver fish from the banks.

He stopped me dead in my tracks.
What this is really about, said his finger
to my chest, is the peace and quiet …

and we stood perfectly still considering tranquility
as insects hummed and buzzed
and there was a wind shuffle of leaves,

until that too was drowned out
by the clatter rumble of another
eastbound District Line train

reflected in the languid canal, where graffiti squiggles
and glutonous oily colours run aground
on abandoned supermarket basket islets.

Could be country, he said, as we climbed through
a hole in the fence, and as I caught my sleeve
on rusty barbed wire, I gave a smile for the CCTV camera.

 

 

©2008 P.A.Levy
First published by Open Wide magazine (closed)

 

An Answer Message On Sick Leave

Sorry there’s no one to take your call right now …

I want to spend the day alone with my afterthoughts,
picnicking on the slag heap hills and quarried valleys

of landscaped masterpieces inspired by wild purple
scars and bruises, and as each dandelion hour is taken

with a breeze that also scares the light
of my candle, by which I say

my prayers, or make promises
that get stuck in my teeth like spinach

there seems little difference, it’s just an excuse to challenge
my conscience to loop and replay, the memory game for free.

So I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now,
my soul is reeling with salmonella.

Please leave a message after the elongated bleep
that masks a tirade of my high pitched obscenities.

 

 

©2007 P.A.Levy
First Published by Wordgathering 2009

 

iE-less

when we landed at iBeefa
i hadn’t even left the airport
and i’d sorted enough pills
to see us through the holidays
i was so well up for a good time
nothing
i mean nothing
was gonna prevent that

you certainly didn’t hang around
acting the big i am
chatting up that girl dj
right in front of me
and those two tarts with the big tits
and g-string bikinis from billericay
you can try that
chill out babe we’re on holiday
and i was out of it
routine if you like but it won’t wash
we are so through
it’s not even
that you scored a bag of weed
smoked it all with the lads
on the beach
that has really pissed me off

you total utter BASTARD
you nicked my bag of E’s

and vn now as i writ a postcard hom
th irony of scribbling this incohrnt
nonsns is that mum and dad
will think i’m off my had
‘cos thy won’t know som piggy bastard
orribl git nickd my stash
i hat you
you scum facd bldr
and your pathtic xcus for a pnis

 

 

©2008 iDrew
First published by Stalking Elk 2011 (closed)

 

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 2012 by Twenty Something Press (closed)

 

The Ophelia Syndrome

(the miss haversham scenario)

on the suburban stained mattress
of a semi-detached bed
her life from little girl to widow
cut short
comes to a spinster end

and all because he just had to find out
what taste was on natasha’s lips
inhale her cunt’s hot glowing scent
and how well his cock would fit
inside natasha slut with golden hair
handmade tits
and long long barbie legs

(the duties of a bridesmaid)

i laid down on the reedy bed
next to the bride full of bubbly turpentine
who shot her bridegroom down in flames
and still in her meringue dress
wails behind the cobweb veil
waltz drunk and dribble wet
she curls up as if to die

(has there ever been such a thing
as a best man)

she didn’t mean anything
was his excuse for the broken things
like the broken scene
from a glossy magazine
i had to scream at her
not to take this lying down

and so we waited for the river to flow
and the water to rush
garland carry us
on columbines rosemary pansies and rue
i offered her violets
but they withered
crestfallen by the wave that took us out to sea

(the bride rescued and set free)

 

 

©2009 Charlotte De’Ath
First published by Slink Chunk 2014