The page looked at me
blankly.
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...blantly.
'Oh...who was that scentence
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
alphabet
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...call yourself
a bloody poet! '
they jeered
'We're off to Bryan Baker's
head! '
'Now...there's a poet! '
Slam!
The door was silent.
They were gone.
I was...
...I was
...speech-less!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I LOVE IT! ! ! Has to be one of the funniest descriptions of that terrible condition known as 'the blank white' I've ever read. 10+