Frozen super master race


Peas are green,
Peas are round,
Peas in the freezer
Don’t make a sound.
(At least that’s what most people think,
But if you watch you’ll see them wink).
They’re a frozen-super-master-race,
Descended down from outer space
(Well, suburb space to be pedantic,
But mention that, they’ll grow quite frantic,
So I feign awe at their credentials
And marvel at their green potential).
They’re waiting for the ice age thaw
To rule us like they did before.
In the dead of night I hear them trill
“We’ll get out soon, I’m sure we will.”

Words, in no particular order


They roll so droll
And uncontroll
Able
My Surest why would oysters still
Deplore the noise the stagnant nose the hedgehog hedging pose desposed to argue trice the trove behest delpored I snore it smote it smite it oat it pay me more then I shall
Note it
Joyless they advance the queen:
stinking, thoughtless splint broad bean and suet crystal sprint
And custard.
Dribble.
Hip
And spinnet.
Plinth.
Signet.
Pulp.
Divinest grip
And podgy pip and leaby grip
And gripe water slaughter
Eater laughter
Precious flight and fudge grip daughter
Once it clipped
And clumped the phrase aloft
The frigid jelly slop.
And lop it flop it flip it soft
And still and empty frigate loft.

Special needs


Labyrinthine places interlacing,
Serpentine rules of social placing,
Entwining, divining. Fault-finding.
Tubular footfall hollow and shrill,
Rules and regulation behaviour modification drill.
Twisty, misty Podular slopes.
Modular confusion.
Artificial brighting,
No fighting.
Yellow, blue and red hues only,
Windows in and no way out,
Never ending
Mind bending
Consciousness modulated
Socialisation complemented
With physical prowess for its own sake.
Discard down the chute the lonely or the insane,
Or those who washed your targets down the drain.
Let the thoughtless clamber, limber, over their sedated bones below,
Rattling their own rhythms (fools)
As they contemplate the weight of disapproval
Crushing them to a more palatable flavour,
Like coffee beans crushed, mushed and discarded.
Their thoughts have parted company with the course of history,
Determined by brusque and muscular brains who never pause for thought,
Save to congratulate themselves.
And so, doughnut, time plods on blissful and unaware without you,
Mongrel retard and remedial reject that you are.
Just coz you can see the stars
And hear their cold disapproving paternal laughter too
Does not make you
One of us.

Dadabot decides to live inside a glass pea


 

Dadabot up

Dadabot down

Dadabot had enough of this town

Thought a home, inside the house,

And it grew like thoughts come seeping out,

Hypnotic, spasmodic little shiny piece by piece,

Grew a bubble over my head

And shiny slippers for my feet,

And glass dripped down and masked my face,

And shards fused together to make my place,

And i touched the gleam with cold hands,

As it trapped me in its bubble so periodic,

Green and frogmotic,

Greeny gleamy sheeny inbetweeny

I could see out the cracks,

But i soon stopped that and feasted my little eyes

On the smooth shell hypnotic all around me.

It glows the outside and glares it from my mind,

And my thoughts with it are neatly twined,

Here glass, sphere glass perfection is my predilection.

My direction, well, is my pea’s for we roll as one.

This is where my world begun.

The light trapped out, the light trapped in,

A perfect pea with me within.

I lick the smooth surface of my prison and drool,

I can’t get enough of my green whirlpool,

Where thoughts are swirling cool and cold,

In my bubble i’ll grown old,

And rust away.

We’ll roll together down the way,

Over the hills and far away.

some words in no particular order


Situation vacant.

Empty shell

the peas

shell

Like ears,

Walls have ears.

Living hell.

Plaster the cracks over.

Just for show

Them who’s boss.

Better the devil you know

It makes sense

of it all

makes sense.

Water under the bridge

That you will cross when you come to it

When your paths cross

Your heart and hope to die.

Hope is dead,

Lose your head,

Use your head

Less chickens

Carry on going

Nowhere fast.

Mid-life crisis

Of conscience.

Beginning

Middle

And end

It all

Makes sense

The atmosphere,

Cut it with a knife

And fork

In the road

To hell

And back

To basics.

Hear a pin drop

The charges.