Long Buried Poets

the dead ones passed
away with melodramatic
mass consumption as documented
by thousands of glitter
confetti droplets

falling on barcode eulogies
as they lay down next to stylised
wilted flowers embossed
on back covers like
brass rubbings

fingered words of loneliness
are lovers
dog-eared headstone braille
word heroes of
verses turning in their graves

Underground Connections (subterranean suffrage)

swimming with the guppies
in and out glass tower blocks
the horizon sound of
mouldy
mildew electricity
air bubble love and the drip drip drip
of fresh cut flower sap
rotting
worming into this oyster kingdom of far
where sky is just a conspiracy theory
captured deep from the marshlands of essex
thames estuary mud and the cold north sea
let me see
you flashing yer oyster card at me
travel late at night
suspicious looks that echo with distrust
tracks that winds wash against rust
rumble on
rumble out of an unnatural darkness
you flashing yer oyster at me
a hard shell of revolution and sex
and sex
and sex
and sex
and sex
and sex
and sex
and sex
and sex
and sex
and sex
and sex
and sex
we’re heading home to our beds

LEVEL ZERO
and breathe out – come purple dance with me

BELOW
on the district line heading east

BELOW
sewer pipes

BELOW
roman excavations
under dirt and scandal
empty shells remain

(MUSE TREASURE CHORUS:)
make a spraycan mantra
baby
let’s sod off home for our tea

Profile: P.A. Levy