Dadabot thinks himself a girlfriend, who is then eaten by a chair


Alone inside my bubble I could barely see out,

I didn’t think to scream and i didn’t think to shout.

I thought a place to put her, bubble by bubble,

And her throne grew painfully, doubled and doubled.

Pea-thick soup jelly her seat and her place,

I thought her and thought her into time and into space.

She grew and she trembled as life’s breath made her alive,

Skin and hair and hands so cold they made my heart dive

And splash and jump and leap through the waves so slick,

I try to move towards her but the glass is too thick,

Her robot hands and robot arms poised coolly on their chair,

Crazy and deranged I am held by her stare

And she sinks oozily back into the chair that I thought her,

Bubbling away with soup-crazed laughter,

Sucked and eaten by her pea throne,

And I am left alone,

Staring at a chair

Burping her into the air.

Missing


 

 

When they are missing, part of me is too,

When they are hiding, I hide away thoughts too deep to undig

And scatter earth on plans and places.

When they search for chaos they find me there

Peering in, or out,

Not sure any more which side of the glass I’m on

But it makes no sense in either place.

Trains in the night to places where promises

Are spoken and broken;

People they don’t know,

Nowhere to go.

It’s all the same whichever name

You attach to the face, the place, the space…

You can never reach them because

Someone lost them a long time ago.

They slipped mindlessly over the border

Into oblivion

And went missing from their own life

Years before anyone noticed

The light in their eyes had gone out.

The number you have dialled has not been recognised

And even their name runs away from them,

Fleeing half-heartedly for its life.

shouting, counting and apocalyptic grouting


Reason for shouting: counting

Reason for counting: shouting

Department: apocalyptic grouting

Date of shouting: subsequent to the counting

Date of counting: prior to the shouting

Overview of shouting/counting event (include witness statements): (SHOUTING) SHOUNTING

Triggers of this behaviour: anticipation of this meeting, putative future allergic reaction to grouting (needs further investigation)

Refer to: Early anticipation shounting risk management and fudge minimisation team (EASRMFM)

INACTION PLAN:

more shouting

More counting

Avoid breading/shredding/dreading or treading on badgers

Eat less fudge on Tuesday afternoons

Does this record reflect accurately the view of you, the service user: badgers?

Did anyone help you to complete this form: fudge

Signed: unique pupil number 10785678934590357894980639089458907350

Who was present at this meeting: those not absent.

Apologies: I’m sorry about the badgers.

the yellow clock and the orange


The yellow clock ticks more slowly than the orange

But around both is enveloping blackness,

A letter from some

where

they know

something

I don’t,

Black ink on black paper.

It all ends up the same

Whichever time-frame.

Is it the same conversation

With a different name?

The peas rot more slowly

But the seconds don’t matter

When you know where you’re going.

When you don’t is when the tick is your music

And the silence between your thinking time

To plan the next graceful leap into chaos

And hope for peaceful oblivion.

Sinister shadows of reality hoover at the corners,

Desperate for dust,

squashing the escapist bubble

and it bursts.

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.

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

Up

And

Down

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.