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.

I am your knee


I am your knee.

You didn’t listen much to me.

In fact, if you had to spot me in a line up of knees,

I doubt you’d recognise me as your own.

(That is not likely to happen again,

I have done my time and will

not be partaking in a life of crime

for the forseeable future).

You picked scabs off me when you were young.

You knelt on me on dusty cushions

To pray haphazardly.

Or on floors strange and alien

Contorted by boys to whom you had not been formally introduced.

You once took me on a unicycle.

It was an anticlimax, in my opinion.

A traffic light engineer once told you I was knobbly.

You chose to think he was flirting.

He most certainly was not.  It was merely an observation.

You embarrassed me countless times with skirts too short,

And countless prepositions at the end of sentences,

That were too tedious to contemplate.

Your anecdotes, quite frankly, are paltry,

And your cooking is beyond bland.

The preponderance of peas is depressing.

A bit of variety, they say, is the spice of life.

You dressed me in some distinctly dubious trousers in the 90s.

Let us be quite clear about it,

they were not retro, they were unfortunate.

You neglected me, when it came to moisturisation

In particular.

Don’t expect me to keep quiet about it now.

After all you put me through.

If you can look me in the knee and tell me that I’m wrong,

Then do it.

But you know I’m right.

I glad we had this heart to knee.

I’ve had it in knee for a long time to tell you all of this,

But I know you don’t respond well to criticism.

I hope you realise your knee is in the right place,

I’m not saying this to be unkind.

I just want to help you.

I won’t take it to knee if you

Choose to take offence.

After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.

I always pictured this moment in your mind’s knee.

Or was it your knee’s knee?

Do you know?

Do you even know whether I am your left knee,

Or your right?

We don’t see knee to knee,

But to you, we’re just the same.

Weasels Laugh


 

The door’s locked,

The stone is tight

The key is turned

Still cracks of light

Seep through in shadows weird and strange

And voices call and thoughts derange

The peace and tranquil tomb around

My door, and entwine their fronds

Around my perfect peas carved space by space

Each pea perfect in its place

And shake my charnel house to life

And bone dust flecks fly to the light

With manic chuckles, taunting thoughts

Of bouncing peas and freedom paths

Away

but all stones neatly laid lead

To other doors with carvings strange

And names deciphered too late

To flee

And run back to the door you know

The door you bolted long ago

Against the cold, the laughing stoats.

The weasels got you by the throat

And paced the days out one by one

Until the chaos had begun

To trance you, lull you back to sleep

In sweet illusion of deep peace

And weeds entangled thoughts of theirs

In with your falling, shedding hairs

And tight their grip on hope and glee

With grips and prickles plain to see

Til pained you carve the dates and thoughts

Forget the freedom that you bought

And hug the earth towards you tight

And pack it closely as you might

So nothing more can fill the cracks

And minds cannot tell what they lack.

Footsteps fade from down the path,

The echo’s gone, and weasels laugh.

Night time singing


 

 

 

 

Black black oil windows,

Glass cracking oily breaking

Groaning low deep melody

Seeping seeping, leaking

Night time singing

Bringing sounds, smells,

Sparkles lighting, brighting

Hopeless insubstantial glitter

Pulling black, night-light

Wind in my hair

I have no hair

Whip-lash rocks

Crashing waves

Face numb

Been alive

Still was

Am was

Whipped face numb

Rain lashing

sparked wiring

Fizzed in places

i had never fizzed

before.

Wake up sea, whipped lightning

Sea sung to me.

Take the key

That sits on the polished table

In pride of place

And open the door

That you made and painted

To the prison that you made and painted

and flee with all you want to free.

Before it is too late.

Already you are the gaoler

But you admire your smooth self

When you look at your face trapped

In the permafrost mirror

Above the polished table

 

 

 

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.