poem about peas 1


Peas on the underground

One day, basically, I went on the tube.

I didn’t feel like going, not after the other day.

My seat had smelt lingeringly of hobos past

(and from the pungency and urgency, recently present).

There were peas scattered tragically all over the floor,

perhaps vomited, perhaps not,

who can say?

(I don’t know and to leave the question here it’s clear,

I could return to the story another day,

the story of the peas in its dazzling entirety).

There were about five of them, faded.

So anyway, I went on the tube.

So I stood there waiting, like you do,

On the platform, not too near, not too far

Because if you hug the wall everyone will know,

That you worry a gust of wind will blow you onto the tracks,

And if you walk too near they worry you’ll jump.

Not to mention fearing someone’s going to explode the place.

But they didn’t.

The train rocked up.

(scenario 1)  I got crushed in the doors, as I daydreamed on.

No-one asked me if I was ok

A girl laughed, with greasy hair.

(aside) The story of the peas in its dazzling entirety:

I am a shadow of a pea, a tiny explosion of possibility,

Waiting to be planted.

I know nothing,

But I know that I am pea.

I have begun.

I have been planted, by who? by what?

What chance?

Which omnipresent omnipotent omniscient God made me in his pea image ?

Did I evolve from a primordial pea soup?

But I am.

I have started, and I groan downwards and upwards and into the light

I feel the warmth sparkle me and the wet fizzle me.

I am pea.

I know not why I grow or how I know,

but I know that I am pea.

I feel at home here, and my roots feel calm and still,

The soil is my dark damp oozy friend,

and the sky makes me dizzy with space and blueness.

Dizzy like the day I was picked.

The final snatching – the day I knew had to come.

I knew because I am pea.

But I wasn’t ready.  None of us were.

We were laid on a slab, marble cool and deathly clean,

And washed in a flood

And boiled alive,

With other beings.

We didn’t know them, for they are not pea.

We were mixed and tumbled, rolled and roared,

And then a lid closed,

And darkness.

Warm steamy darkness,

Oozy and fragrant.

I was taken away.

What happened next:

The pea became part of a portion of egg fried rice served to

A balding, slightly lonely man

In his early thirties.

By day he works in a spanner factory.

By night he is depressed because by day he works in a spanner factory.

He owns a budgie called Joseph K

(he will have his own poem one day)

He downed a bottle of supermarket own brand vodka

and went to wander the streets of Basingstoke in search of

something, somebody or somewhere.

He didn’t vomit … but could have.

He wobbled on his feet, and spilled some peas.

They lie tragically on the floor,

But are not squashed.

Scenario 2

The train rocks up

(to be continued, and that is the best bit )

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One response to “poem about peas 1

  1. I like my peas with honey
    I’ve done it all my life.
    It makes the peas taste funny
    but it keeps them on the knife.

    ANON

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