St George is Cross by P.A.Levy

in olden days every hamlet
had its village idiot
harmless childlike even amusing

modern times make way for the boozer
bigot washing down a tandoori chicken
or hot vindaloo probably with
a danish lager or a pilsner
starting all his sweaty sentences with
i’ll tell yer this for nothing
as if his philosophies are worth
a million

the latest fashion in racism
with asylum seekers and pakis an ever
popular target
only now asian means arabs
and arabs mean muslim extremists
with blacks and jews and pikeys finding
themselves temporarily relegated to division two
fists thump tables to emphasise
come over here take all our jobs and jump
the housing queue use our NHS and schools

however as i try to enjoy a quiet pint
he tries to engage me in his rants
for he is certain there exists
some kind of anglo-saxon lost link directly
to my heritage
which is not to be confused with the missing link
‘cos it’s not missing
i know exactly where it is
so give the link another drink and a bag
of agincourt flavoured crisps
until he spews up land of hope and glory
jerusalem and god save the queen

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Party ’till We Drop by P.A.Levy

what
a jack –
frost
star-crossed
party
we had
with that
dumb –
waiter
falling
over the
sleeping –
policeman
lazy –
susan
doing nuffin’
spinning –
jenny
right round
baby
right round
catherine –
wheel
doing
wheelies
drunk on bottle
rockets
such
an ordeal
shelia –
maid
it all happen
the end
of the world
party
with the dancing
poles
in
the
repossed
wendy –
house
frequented by
uncle
tom
cobley
and
all and all and all and all

Next by P.A.Levy

The dog-eared hospital waiting
area, patiently, slowly
filled up with suspicions of not knowing
whittled out of the very fibres and cells
of appointment cards.

So we wait.  On fractured chairs
in a disinfected air, an illness-
green colour scheme reflects
the pallor of our despondency in
solicitude.  Nurses hastily propel
themselves on clockwork adrenaline.
The friction of their uniforms
a shuffling deck of cards to be dealt.

Still we wait.  Poker faced, wondering
if the chips are down.
Drowning in an ultrasound hubbub
of conversations, not thinking of oxygen
but breathing.  One eye on the wall clock,
the other scanning the receptionist.
Time taking the pulse of the N.H.S.,
waiting for a name to be pronounced.

Advance on the Side of Right by P. A. Levy

the collective guilt
sanctioned
by the study of maps
buries under brushes over
follows orders
to trample
children of the rubble
into dust
to dust
say amen to a victory

..

Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’ and stations in-between.  He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective and can be found loitering on page corners and wearing hoodies at www.cluelesscollective.co.uk