Your eyes are peas (or the windows to the insole and thimble factory)

Your eyes are peas.

Boil them up quickly,

With no thought,

No life,

No effort.

And place them on the side of a faded browning plate

With something else:

A breadcrumbed Roman nose,

Or a hairy ear wrapped in pancetta,

Drizzled in some sort of fancy vinegar.

To oo and ah and blah blah blah.

The peas roll out the hours

And the minutes

And the seconds

And their roll rocks out a steady lift-music beat

As they frantically try not to

Be caught

By your fork.

And who can blame them?

Your stomach is a frigid tomb

Full of miscellaneous displeasing detritus,

A furnace fuelling a factory which makes




At least that is what your eyes tell me.