November 2016


Poetry From P.A. Levy
Poetry By: P.A. Levy

Talkin' 'Bout My Generation

these days i get me pills from the NHS

these days i play it loud 'cos i'm going deaf

these days i gob 'cos of too much phlegm

these days i fall over 'cos me knees give way

these days i dye me hair to hide the grey

these days will soon come to an end

f-f-f-f-fucking amen

Trapped in Kathy Acker's Blood and Guts

so there i was imagining

kathy acker's gash

but once inside i got lost

without a torch

i slipped on the darkness

almost drowned in sylvia plath's

menstrual blood

but i clambered onto a clot

found an ariel

and managed to send out

morse code messages

using emily dickinson's dots and dashes

i went with the flow

eventually seeing the light of day

there was stevie smith

standing on the top of

kathy's white thighs waving

i knew that i was saved

but i don't think i'll be imagining

kathy acker's gash again

T.V. Fix

unfolding a wrap is like getting a love letter

it says i miss you and drools sexuality

even in the geometrically correct

corners where we serenade with spoons

then there's the penetration

we become sunshine

only to absorb the hit watching

a tv game show who wants to be a junkie?

confusing glowing with happiness

but i'm not taking any cut chances

i can double my prize fund with a special

bonus question

where's the next hit coming from?

wearing his very best television

smile the host watches

a bead of sweat

escape from the gulag of my upper lip

can i phone a dealer?

so he hands me the receiver

get a score sorted in under thirty seconds

never known an audience of de-culture

savages to roar so loud

screaming methadone baby jesus and buzz



through the medium of modern dance

my next hit presently being cooked by the cripple

inside me convexly conversing

with the bones of dead warriors

who also wondered

what's the point of it all

and for whom the last question was

where's the next hit coming from?

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

sitting in the original acid house jungle

baloo opened his book written thousands

of years before by some monkeys who

had found a typewriter

by the chill-out tree a snake

offered him a granny smith's apple

but baloo was tripping and had

grossed out on mr kipling's exceedingly

good cakes

do you know where you are boy

said the snake

you're in the jungle


yes i know replied baloo

the psychedelic jungle

and returned to reading

a story of a danish prince


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