Three poems by P.A. Levy
Check Out Girl Superstar
If the check-out girl labelled Joanne can present a bargain smile
wearing a brown sack uniform, I should at least try. I did. I smiled, but
I lacked conviction, managing to stay indifferent as she coquettishly
blip
slid her fingers up and down my tin of spaghetti hoops; twice.
The pink tip of her tongue tasting pale lipstick with I want some
phone sex ad overtones. Then she said: Do you watch Big Brother?
blip
I love Big Brother, me. It’s my ambition to be in the House
as she flights my items over the scanner, I try and imagine
who in their right mind would turn their telly on to watch
blip blip
Joanne eating her spaghetti hoops, and I think I upset her
when I said Big Brother’s blip and that I never watch it.
She gave me a very odd look. As if I was incomplete.
blip blip
Then for some inexplicable reason the blip, that annoying
electronic grunt like a bored adolescent thanks, just shut up,
not even a whatever. So she wiped the scanner with her sleeve,
but still no blip and then she says: I’ve an X-Factor audition
to go to next month. I can’t really sing but it’ll be a laugh.
More Y than X-Factor I thought. Keen to get home I broke
the ensuing awkward silence by asking her if she should buzz
for assistance. No need she replied, put out that I’d shown no interest
in her telly life, the supervisors will be watching us on CCTV.
***
Wilted
so your boss has taken you and your ‘team’
for lunch and you’re in some trendy posh pub
you push the movers and the shakers into the background
and decide to act cool by nonchalantly
umm ja that looks splendid
i’ll have one of those just pointing at the menu
‘cos you’re no wimp with allergies
you can take what ever is thrown at you
and when it’s served you get some kind of
tomato and spinach tart
topped with goat’s cheese and a healthy salad
on the side
umm ja this is lovely actually
but all through lunch you’ve noticed
a certain girl sitting at the bar
all alone stunning bit of totty looking rejected
and your ‘team’ are out to impress talking
monthly figures and graph projections
so you go over to her and ask her if she would
like a drink
then it’s revealed
the dark side of spinach
***
Red Sky
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.
***
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.
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