Bullseye on denotation, you fix the under-meaning: perfect
then translate more, fail to alliterate, thus betray your
Cut! “Fab,” says the boss. You’re not sure. He’s done, rolls the
next scene, “fab” again.
You face your image on screen, cringe at the ham – never your
Brand-new studio, your voice swings with the instruments, chimes
with the counters.
They call you back, result a mess: tech mistakes smashed your
Now you’re the director, your actors are great, strike all your
The freezing theatre’s emptiness hits your eye like a
Epidermal ecstasy; dovetailing minds; joy in, for, each other.
Then your word out of place sets back her search for your
Your own words now. You can do it: deno, conno, allit! But:
Murphy’s Law, son, means you’ll never write well enough for this
Bryan Murphy also kindly submitted this poem in the phonetic
alphabet, to demonstrate how its syllabics work in his (Southern
British) accent. This alternative version
can be found here.
If you have any comments on this poem, Bryan
Murphy would be pleased to hear them.