they want a poem about the western derby
but I hate both teams
they wanna poem about the government
but I hate both teams
so I wrote this
and I cant
I cant
waiting for words to spit out
like lyrical sparks,
searching dictionaries
for inspirational diction
for rhymes, for fact-filled fiction
but there’s naught
theres only blank white
this screen missing wit
unable to spit out the fitness
nothing here
no assonance
or alliteration
minimal enunciation
just half-cooked metaphors
a cheap wilted leaf of zeros
theres no fun on this page
cant put my mouth where my money is
cant put my money where my mouth is
cant get the lists of similies
cant build this thing
and on sunday
there’s no big nic nat in the centre
to hit out the sherrin
that massive magic helicopter flipper clearance
at the bounce
its whats not there
and fyfe’s back in
hes back in from an injury
or a little rest
and ross is smokin something
the poet that
he is
but this poem is still a ghost
a shell filled with zilch
no word-filled books
or paper on the shelf
and I cant erect it
to reach it
cant make it
to the media
a dummy-spit
like kyrgios
no brilliance
no light
just this
this
this
empty
white
noise
freo by 10