Whatever Can

Bullseye on denotation, you fix the under-meaning: perfect start;
then translate more, fail to alliterate, thus betray your perfect art.

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 perfect part.

Brand-new studio, your voice swings with the instruments, chimes with the counters.
They call you back, result a mess: tech mistakes smashed your perfect Bogart.

Now you’re the director, your actors are great, strike all your long-sought notes.
The freezing theatre’s emptiness hits your eye like a perfect-thrown dart.

Epidermal ecstasy; dovetailing minds; joy in, for, each other.
Then your word out of place sets back her search for your far-from-perfect heart.

Your own words now. You can do it: deno, conno, allit! But: cliché.
Murphy’s Law, son, means you’ll never write well enough for this perfect art.

Bryan Murphy

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.