P.A. Levy hides in the heart of Suffolk countryside learning the lost arts of hedge mumbling and clod watching.  He is an original member of the Clueless Collective and has been in many publications.

Three Poems (August 20, 2009. Issue 8.)

The Art Of Betrayal

I’d cut a sex stain
into a neat square
from a soiled sheet.
I then had it framed;
now hangs on
our bedroom wall.
Pride of place.

I told you I’d bought it
from a London gallery,
you would
stare at it for ages

then say something like:
I can see
a happy butterfly,
or an abstract
of love, or Mother Theresa.
 
But it’s just a souvenir
from when I had your sister.

In Gob We Trusted

we were only playing at being kids
sat timeless on the bridge
legs kicking air
gobbing into the murky canal

you tilted your head back
to achieve a greater velocity
then catapulted your whole body forward
projecting a glutinous missile of gob
at a plastic bottle
bob-bobbing-bob
in the act of drowning

such a squeal of delight
(as if you’d won the world cup)
as the phlegm sliding slug-like slid
from the bottle
into sludge brown water

it’s just like life  you victoriously proclaimed
in the fashion of an after dinner speaker
to be a success
set your sights and with all your might
go for it

I stood up - unzipped - aimed - exclaimed
life’s a pissing game

the bottle finally sunk
with two glugs and a resounding plop
so we headed home
for tea and jam sandwiches

One Night Steal

come thieving love (stolen gasps)
abetted with dead roses
aided by smiles

and a last minute valentine’s
as a love-lifters manifesto
 
to help themselves
and run out the door

you’ve been fantastic
i’ll call you (good-bye)