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.