Dadabot’s journey from a building with stairs to the one with a lift, in which he meets his Nemesis.

The moon in the night sky


Gagged was and frolicksome chucking in a van ensued.  White.

Windows out-blacked and within, bare.

My soul shrieked and wobbled for the peas,

The ones I’d behind left.

Part of me, although, was dazzled to free be.

Whoosh, stop, whoosh, stop went the van.

My stairs, my stairs,

Shall how I miss you? Up and down

Sameness does as sameness is

And knowing where needing to go to go to go

Once I reached the bottom

And the top.  Is which if which.

Driver’s halo is bristly, smelling of cabbage.

Maintain order, maintain order,

My counting brain barked

And yapped and in my head




Was I

Still going.

Not knowing.

Place wither, place whence, hence and fences

Opened as if they knew

We had come.

Another building,

Not straight enough

Too bendy.

The frolicksome driver hurled threw the door

And shut it slammed behind.

‘Dam row bot’ were his talking nonsense.

My head screamed for I could see no stairs,

But I had the peas.

They were there.  There they were.  Were they there?

The ones I’d left behind.

Omit the hysterical crying,

of days 1, 2 and 4.

When elegant Frisbees languished their lives away

Day by day (interval on day 3 pea) by day.

I led my quaking mind by its leash,

While it tried to yank away.

I pressed a button BUFFOON,

And moved inside a box as chill as death’s three walls,

And a metal door closed forth.

It wasn’t death’s.

I was flying up and up and up

Smooth and velvety,

But my head was still counting the stairs

And ordering the smoothness

Into manageable chunks

in meaty gravy,

Paw by paw.

It quenched my rockety head like lapping at a cool bool

Of water.

As I wizzled up

And down.

With only the safety of the ceiling

to stop us whooshing

out of all order altogether

and into the stars,

I felt his presence.

My nemesis.

Death to peas, he sings,

In counter-tenor crisp and trickly.

While nonchalant tap-dancing infuses the night.

While he lurks,

His mirror shades reflect a massacre

Of squashed peas,

Gruesome whiskers flicker and twitter

Onto the slug shadow of his manic furry face.

His soul is a rotting fishbone.

I shall wait for him in the lift,

With a gravy boat.