My coworker’s in the kitchen nattering
And fixing tea: turkey dinosaurs.
It’s my first day. He scratched me
Earlier, but now seems happy.
‘4 o clock escape’ I think I hear him say
As drool bungees from his lip.

With raucous cry he strips his tigger tee
To hair patches and marks
Dark red impetigo. Curious shark
Of a hand circling round his head
Nails that need a trim
Cycle the menu
load game options new continue.
Clenching jaw like he’s on swedge
Making all his spittle splat
Rocking
like a Chinese Cat.

Zadulph . At eight I played the demo
Basically, the game’s a satire of capitalism
You play this humanoid with mythic destiny
All your race live in a factory
You’re to set them free
From the rats who are your masters.
So you pray to open portals, pray
Control the minds of guards
In Zadulph all the guards are toads
You convert them to your cause
Or make their little froggy heads explode.
It’s fucking fun actually.

The aim’s to save your species, and Peter really tries.
For half an hour I watch him run around
Pressing square to make them follow
Cross to make them stay. He runs ahead
To find two guards, takes control of one,
Shoots the other, then walks the original off a ledge.
He giggles at the sound of bones on the factory floor
And I also laugh
Because I was worried that another incident might happen
But now he really seems fine: more power to him.

My mind wanders, thinks about the story
floating round the staff room.
that the slightly well-to-do person
who comes and brings him new clothes
and takes him out for long drives
is not his Mum
she can’t be, she’s too nice

his real parents must have been druggies
one day they took the train to Kirknewton,
leaving him with only Irn Bru and Pringles.
I heard the police burst in after four days
and found him soaked in piss
encircled by seven empty bottles,
seven empty cylinders,
seven lids replaced.

He rates the number seven.

Now he lives in this shared madhouse.
His days are planned
Around his likes and dislikes. Could be worse.
It’s what he needs.
Needs other people to control his actions.
Needs a locked door, though spiritually
He’s gentle as the Indian from that Jack Nicholson movie.
You know…this room’s actually a prison of his own construction.
We’re employed as ‘support’, but we might as well
Be prison wardens, barking out instructions
That he doesn’t get, but has to maintain.
And so, computer games:
Simple social dynamics. Zadulph.
Two buttons, two commands. Control.

His brown eyes roll.

Recently I’ve been toying with this phrase:
Disability is the Parnassus of transgression
The way that people stare at wheelchairs
Tut at adults making strange noise and turn
From the truths they signify, human truths—it makes me
Look at Pete’s wet pus, and view him as a totem
Of nonconformity, nothing less
Than some postmodern Prometheus,

Sapping squash.

Five o clock. Zadulph prays
All compatriots fly through the beam of light
Back to their homeland.
Peter, their saviour
His smile

A final guard explodes
And drops a key.
Suddenly there looms a massive door
And something feels wrong, but I ignore
This as he pushes the joystick right
Unlocks it and walks through.

Fuck.

The crown appears first
The resolution strains
And Peter knows what’s coming
And holds on to his sticks
And takes out Zadulph’s catapult
And now I’m in a quandary
Because this seems like it can be a turning point for Pete,
Like learning how to read
Surely he deserves the chance to put to rest all of his fears and strike out far away from here
Far from shitty Sighthill
If he can’t escape from here
If he can’t escape from here
We’re all fucked I think
Square up to him Pete,
Catapult is square.

He’s trembling his shoulder locked
He’s got the catapult full cocked
He takes aim fires it glances off
The Rat King brightens up the screen
Reflecting off his brown eye-beam
And now I think it’s a mistake
Cos Peter’s legs they start to quake
And he lets out the lowest moan

Ever heard a human groan
The sound of which is just pure dread?

That means all the things in his head
That trouble him are there with you
And he is escalating. Fuck.
“Okay, right, Pete, you’re gonna have to calm down mate, you can keep on playing but you need to be more calm. Turkey dinosaurs for tea, turkey dinosaurs for tea…”
I think he understands.
I think he understands
He focuses, takes aim at the Rat King
Square
The shot lands! Yes Pete!
Far away from here
Far away from here
Far away from here

But there is no return
Something funny with his hands
Then he jolts to foot
Cracks the controller on the floor
Rips his Tekken poster down
Kicks through the television screen
Rounds on me.
I freeze,
And take three nails to the cheek.
She bursts through from the kitchen
“What the hell, why d’ya let him…
It’s okay Pete.”
She pulls the plug . Rounds
“You need to leave.”

simple calisthenics I refused to learn
Peter has his dinner every day at
five fifteen
I stand by seven shaking heads and gurn
howl as he treads the broken screen
downstairs turkey dinosaurs burn