BaRking NatiVity

We boy astrologers search for Venus
every night; constellation gazers
yeah! that’s us, eyeing up council estate slappers
laser backlit as dancefloor angels, ultraviolet delight
round the back alley, skirt up left leg wrap;
pant! pant! pant! shake down zip it up quick
she’s that dun-in on Alcopops gonna be sick:
laters luv 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 in Barking Towers;
high
twenty fourth floor of a planner’s wet dream
complete with en suit piss puddles in the stairwell
crack dens in the subterranean car park;
not there on the blueprint
of a less than immaculate concept.

When kick brat want out
Mary-jane ain’t got a scoobie-do,
the lifts are bust. Calls for an ambulance;
no-go location, from clouds to dole-lands
is 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
heading 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 were sick and also the rot
she gave his dick so ‘e’s keen
to put an end to being bad-mouthed
by a mare of a one night stand
and 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 Dryland 2015

 

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 2014 by Forward Poetry – In A Flanders Field Anthology

 

Split in Two (or three)

I’ve held                      night time skies laden with dreams,
stars                             and the moon, whose orbit follows lines
in my hand                  laid down into darkness moulded by caress,
until light                     touch of pleasures; sweet songs
escaped                        crashing into prism colours,
out through                  sonnets I wrote on your flesh
my fingers                   tracing every wish into a couplet
and then                       sealing every letter of love with a kiss
I just held                    and held you until morning became clothed in mists;
cloud                           castles crumbled on the drift and I was lost in echoes
whispers                      that blue is here to stay forever.

 

 

©2007 P.A.Levy
First published 2008 by Cleave Poetry (magazine closed)

 

iScarf

i went shopping
with isadora duncan
we bought some new dresses
shoes and sexy lingerie
when we came to accessorise
she picked out a new scarf
i said honey that’s way too long
she said yeah
but in my little sports car
i’m gonna look well cool
and really what harm
can an expensive scarf do

 

 

©2009 iDrew
First published 2012 by Twenty Something Press (magazine closed)

 

iRhyme

when i was a little girl
i played with my barbie
and barbie played with little ted
until it was time for bed
dear reader
those grubby thoughts
are so out of order
there must be a cesspit
in your head

then barbie got boring
and so i started
to play with boys
dear reader
don’t read too much into this
i wasn’t that sort of girl
yes i would let boys play
with my tiny breasts
in a doctor and nurse scenario
and we would share a little kiss
in a mummy and daddy kind of way
that’s all there was to it
then …

now
a few years further on
i play to wicked tunes
in pubs and clubs
a little drink a little late night love
dabble in some happytime drugs
meet faces
dancefloor romances
some touch my heart
and some days i play with clouds
and some days i weep when the morning breaks
dear reader
please don’t get the wrong idea
i’m just a girl
out to have fun
instead of being too serious

well little ted and barbie
run off together years ago
so now i write and play with words
and for the page
i undress
reveal my loves the bodies i’ve craved
the shoes i’ve desired
the life so far that i have lived
dear reader
do not fret
i can handle this

i
am
poet

 

 

©2009 iDrew
First published 2009 by Writers' Bloc (magazine closed)

 

The Undertaker’s Lament

i like to do it with my elevenses
                                    i like to do it with my afternoon tea
                                                                                                and a digestive biscuit
                        mostly i like to do it
                                                late at night
                                                                                    in the moon light
            when the bats are flying past my window
            when the owl is calling out
                                                making owl type sounds
                                                            best of all
i like to do it in winter
            when a wind is howling
            when the trees’ bare branches
                                                are scratching at my window
                                                            to come inside
                                                and warm the shivers                          from their timbers
i like to do it then
                                    tuck the dead into their bed
                                                                                    into their coffin for their final sleep
                                                                        may they all rest in peace

                                                but i don’t get paid enough
                                    to keep my family in the fashion they deserve
                                                the dying trade is  …           well dying
                                    now cremation is all the verve

            so i take photographs
                        of their genitals
                                    and sell them to
                                                necrophilliacs
                                                            who seem very grateful
                                    and sometimes … with the good looking ones
                                                pose them in certain positions
                                                            stiff

 

                                                                                    dead porn
                                                            is a lucrative business

                                    live fast            die young        be a beautiful corpse
                                                            PLEASE

 

 

©2010 Charlotte De'Ath
First published 2011 by Circus of the Damned (magazine closed)