Monday, June 1, 2015



( for B. B. )

The page looked at me

The words gathered
inside my head

but refused to
come out.

'Sorry mate...
we're on strike! '

'But why...? '
I cried.

'Do I have to spell it out
for you? '

'Write...write...write! '
'That's all you do! '

'You 'ave us up
all bloody night
it just ain't right! '

'No...I...don't! '
I lied...blatantly.

'Oh...who was that sentence
I saw you with last night? '

'That was no sentence...that was
my haiku! '

'And those poor vowels
...the howls! '

'Look, mate...we're consonants
so we can take it but

...a vowel's a vowel! '

'Now, it's just
our luck
that we're gone & got
ourselves an Irish poet

who is prone
to a little

internal vowel
rhyme! '

'Assonance! '
I said.

'Bless you Guv but
I don't cares wot you'se call it! '

'All we hear all night long is
O...E...I...U! '

And with that
they left

the whole bloody

absailing out of my head

marching down
my forearm

the whole bloody platoon
now on my patella

now turning at the door
saying: 'See ya fella! '

'Call yourself
a bloody poet! '
they jeered

'We're off to Bryan Baker's
head! '

'Now...there's a poet! '


The door was silent.

They were gone.

I was...
...I was


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