Red Sky

by P.A. Levy

The revolution was to be televised live;
kick off this afternoon.  Sky had bought the rights.
We sat all comfy relaxing on the sofa
scoffing the biscuits Garibaldi baked.
Turned on, tuned in,
Molotov mixed the drinks; done the shaky thing.
Trotsky fetched the ice.

But we had forgot to turn the clocks back
in time for October’s winter constitution.
There was a Marx Brothers film still showing
and Karl, with the bushy beard,  he was singing
about the proletariat, telling jokes about
the sanity clause in social contracts.
We lapped it up like duck soup;
laughed so much went opiate dizzy,
except Mao Tse–Tung who kept going on and on
about this little red book, so we sent him out
for a long walk to get chow mien and a chop suey.

A quick word from the Lenin Vodka sponsors
and it all began.  General Ludd had the plans
and the spanners, whilst Captain Swing leapt into action
with the Tolpuddle posse.  But things didn’t quite go
as anticipated when some street-fighting man,
having drunk a little too much lager, spewed-up
on Airstrip One and it all got very messy.

Power cut - the are lights out.
Burston kids providing chaos like St Trinians
miners or minors striking for their rights again.
Then came the riot police on the pitch,
they think it’s all over.
It is now.
The pubs are open.

Still, we thought it rather cute, that in England
Trade Unionist took coloured banners for a little stroll,
whilst in France, heads would roll.

Published originally 2009 in No Teeth

Wake Up Call

by P.A. Levy

phone rings

let it

sound of church bells

across the village green

if only

i’ll just lay here ‘til it stops

i know this ceiling’s

love line & heart line

like the palm of my hand

the phone still rings

it’s midday

the pulse of a high rise

a low bass rumble

guttural

like a resonator dog

guarding his bone

the pulse is a bitch

that never shuts up

the phone stops just lays there

like a resonator dog

the pulse of a high rise

bone

bitch

never shuts up

if only across the village green

phone rumble

love line

the palm of her hand

ring

it’s midday

guttural

sound of church

in the palm of my hand

the pulse of a bitch

love line & heart line

rings

high rise to the ceiling

on the village green

here lies

the bone of a resonator dog

and a buried bass

rumble

it’s midday that never shuts up

guttural

the phone rings again

the phone is a bitch

this time i pick it up

dr benway needs his fix

Talk, Don’t Talk

by P.A. Levy

mind the gap

the atm told me

in the voice of an end

of pier speak your weight machine

that i had a fat chance of any cash

if i want some money to take you out

it sacastically suggested i rob

a bank

access denied

the sat nav said

all was lost

told me this was a dead-end road

i should head back to where i’d started from

home

alone

except for some fading photographs

mail doesn’t need your attention

lol

smiley face

your voice mail sounded full of contempt

almost delighted that you was unavailable

even concluded that our relationship

never had any chance of happiness ‘cos

i was a total network failure

after the bleep -  and bleep of a bleeping bleep

i deleted your messages i had previously cherished

press 3 – gone and forgotten

doors closing – mind the gap please

On The Last Tube Train To Tibet

by P.A. Levy

Let the barbed wire whistle
laments of breezes caught on CCTV;
phantasmic fluttering plastic

and a song bird tapping a beat
on a window twenty floors high;
caught in the wink in a daisy’s eye
from downhearted-lands, concrete lands,
where crushed diamonte of broken bottles
twinkle in the star-shine of Telstar’s offspring.
On the other side of the pane
speed queen Susi never shuts up.
Six stone six of jaw and bone
rolls over, pants, begs for wraps
pouts in a tea stained T-shirt
and moody Nike trackie bottoms
she nicked from Roman Road market.

Bass rhythms. Base rhythms.
Resonates in the hungry cries
of her cunt spew brat;
a free gift that came with a drunken fuck,
but she loves her little SMA junkie to bits,
sings lullabies of far away places
where twilight swoons
with nightingale voices
instead of sirens wailing
and the undulating rumble of another tube train
heading east
beyond Barking.
Skunk farms. M25 raves. Pirates rule
underground air waves.
Worshipping at the twin deck altar
DJ MDMA plays wicked tunes for his
faithless bong children.

Loved-up Susi
looking for someone
searches the acid house attic, looking
for someone in laser lights, someone
to hold, euphorically hold
in drum vibrations,
riding vibrations,
riding the last tube train to Tibet.

she blues (blue for a boy)

by P.A. Levy

ladyboy assassin
drop dead gorgeous
drinks salty hormone cocktails
to die for
keeps a warm gun
between his thighs
loaded

his life
an argentine tango dance
gyrated for an hourly rate
until he had enough bucks
cash up front
for 36B breast implants

now
she struts her sassy stuff
high heels size twelve
paris fragrance by coco chanel
topless dance-by
amassing numbers and collecting bling

happiness is a spent gun
kept in a jar
on the mantelpiece