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
Place wither, place whence, hence and fences
Opened as if they knew
We had come.
Not straight enough
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
As I wizzled up
With only the safety of the ceiling
to stop us whooshing
out of all order altogether
and into the stars,
I felt his presence.
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.