Jem Rolls

No.

They say, we are the words of action.

We are the workers.

down with the capitalist nouns.

Verbs of the world unite and march to the front of the sentence.

And I'm stuck standing there going, Oi, it's me, I'm trying to write a bloody poem here.

So, just to spite them, I decide to write an oral, ghastly, song-and-dancey, bony-and-meat-soft-rock version of Baba, raga, kuku, dada, mama, kaka, riri, nana, kaka, tata, mama, ran, ran, mama, dada, gas, gas, kaka, gaga, la, bloody hell, this back.

Even worse is to go to backstage musical where everything falls apart in severest acrimony before the first performance.

And most of the words go out and get jobs in banks and art centres and sometimes wonder about what might have been.

So all the best words have gone out and got jobs in proper places.

and a sequel, White Noise and Grunting, and even Barracuda, Macarena by Catamaran from Madagascar to Galapagos, which can't get work anywhere, no matter what it does to itself.

Well, none of that's happening in my backstage poem.

Yes, it is.

No, it's not.

Yes, it is.

No, it's not.

In my backstage poem, which isn't really a poem.

Yes, it is.

No, it's not.

Yes, it is.