Silent Film Stars

in the dead letter department
lies mounds of unsorted fan mail
addressed to dearly departed film stars

who now spend their time
once again on the red carpet
only this time
in the celestial post office
posing as stamps
their black and white photographs
haunted with egos
and back lit for halos

cashier number three please

they mingle holding champagne flutes
chin chin and say things like
isn’t death divine

as they enviously wait in line
to reach out and caress the super nova bones
of size zero hannah
a post mistress metro sexual
in saturday night lipstick
dark tulip

and who in return is eager
to lick her flicker flicker
big screen heroes

cashier engaged, please wait in line

behind the counter
under dimmed house lights
she unzips her glitter space suit
and masturbates with dirk bogart’s tibia
let’s get dead sexy
is what she says with those moist tulip lips

she always says that

but in an after glow of guilt
size zero hannah hand writes
pornographic letters
complete with illustrations
to grieving fans of the said dead film stars
with explicit details of getting boned
night after night
and sometimes matinee
then posts them into zero gravity
_________________________________________________________

How To Get Into Trouble When Doing Nothing

I’m bored
it’s one of them days when you imagine,
maybe even hope for,
the Sweeney to storm your sitting room
D.S. Carter shouting: “you’re nicked
for murder and anything you say …
(like: I’m innocent)
… will be taken down and used as evidence
against you.”
Of course, not having committed
any murders, or crimes of any sort,
you find it all exhilarating
except then you remember
the people you’ve killed with your thoughts
oh god will they count
I stand accused a serial thought-killer.
Now I’ve killed D.I. Regan too!

I’m bored
waiting, wondering if Postman Pat
in his little red van
with Jess the cat
will deliver a letter from the offspring
I never knew I had, the resulting
mass of after-cells grown from a one night
stand, and all this will rock
the foundations of everything
I can tell that by the look on my wife’s
face: it’s before our time
do the maths. Should liven things a bit.

I’m bored
waiting for the phone to ring:
“congratulations,
you’ve won a million pound first prize
with your brilliant poem. We loved
your stirring words for world peace.”
Which would be a little bit odd
as I only submitted: An Ode
To Keira Knightley’s Snatch.
The money would be handy, and I could buy
the wife a new hat.
She would need cheering-up
after the nasty
step child shock she almost had.

I’m bored
might as well have another cup of tea
and a digestive biscuit.
_________________________________________________________

Untuned

with urine
we watered our beautiful garden
the roses died
but nettles thrived as our children
lay shriveled and silent
in their beds

from under cloud cover
the dawn chorus decomposed
all the way back
to the single note
of a starting pistol

 

 

P.A.Levy, having fled his native East End of London, now hides in the heart of Suffolk countryside learning the lost arts of hedge mumbling and clod watching. He has been published in many magazines both online and in print, and is an original member of the Clueless Collective to be found at: www.cluelesscollective.co.uk.