I'm Not A Poet

The news is full of it. A poem has burst right out of a man’s stomach and several passersby have been struck. This is the tenth time in as many days and the panic is setting in. Government vaccinations, that’s what we need. Why weren’t they prepared for this? There must be some contingency plan. Someone must have known this was gonna happen.
Yeah, sure there’s a black-out, they’re covering everything that might be poetic but it’s not working. Where did these poems come from? It’s not the aliens. That’s for sure. When was the last time you ever heard an alien reading poetry? Nor the Russians. People have started talking in beeps and dashes but it’s not working! Nothing’s working!
Poems, poems, poems! Keep them away from me. Every little word gets me checking my pulse. I need the Doctor.
‘Dr Anderson!’
‘Is that you Bill?’
‘This is Bill.’
‘Stop calling me.’
‘I’m worried. I passed by a group of trees and the way they moved in the wind got me worried.’
‘Have you read any poetry Bill?’
‘No.’
‘Then you don’t need to worry. You’re not a poet Bill.’
‘How do you know I’m not a poet? The way I felt about those trees Doctor, that’s exactly the kind of way a poet feels.’
‘You’re not a poet Bill.’
‘You’re telling me that guy in the street today was a poet?’
‘That’s right Bill.’
Hang up.
Dr Anderson doesn’t know anything. He’s a Doctor anyway, what does he know about poems? He can’t tell a poet from a parrot.
Dammit! Be more careful Bill, that was close. I’ve got to put a stop to phrases like that. That’s how poems start and then before you know it it’s bursting out your gut and you’re the next headline. I never knew that poetry was so present. In me, as well. I never knew I was poetic. Three weeks ago I would have listened to Dr Anderson, but not now. Now I’m scared
Police sirens are churning up the city.
Not in a pretty way. In a functional way. Just churning like sirens do. No, they don’t. What’s happening to me? I’m sick. I know I’m sick. The whole city is sick. I can hear it. That’s the sirens telling me a poem has got another victim. I don’t wanna hear it. I don’t wanna see it
Stay away from me poems. God, please spare me from the poems. Keep my mind pure and I promise I’ll come on Sunday so long as someone takes down those signs outside because those signs, they’re too much like poetry. What are you trying to do? God, are you trying to punish me? Is this your plague?
Oh no. God had sent a plague of poems upon us. I need to mark my door so the angel of death will spare me. But how do I know it’s God? The government has been messing around with nature too much. What if a poem got into the food chain? There’s gonna be whole fields of crops sprayed with poems. This is gonna be an epidemic. These are the last days and it’s all because they screwed around with nature
The New World Order, that’s it. They did it on purpose. They want to see who’s susceptible. They’re trying to wipe out anyone who might turn out to be a poet because it’s all part of their plan to create a nation of soldiers so they can claim the world’s money all for themselves and so they sent out poems. There could be a poem in my post-box. A clever one. Inside a card or something. They’ll pretend that they sent me a birthday card and inside there’ll be a poem and then all of a sudden Bill will be no more
No, that’s crazy. That’s crazy talk. Maybe I’m infected.
I need to go and see Annette. See Annette and see her curves, her curves that are so. No, no, no. Stop
Curves that are so curvy. That’s all they are. Okay no more words. Just beeps. Beep beep beep
‘Is that you Bill?’
‘Be-beep. Beep.’
‘Please stop ringing me.’
‘Beeeeeep. Beep. Be-beep beeeep beep. Beep.’
‘I’ve got no idea what you’re saying Bill but trust me, you are not a poet.’
‘How do you know I’m not a poet? All of a sudden I felt really alone. That’s how poets feel.’
‘Okay Bill, listen to me.’
‘No, talk in beeps. You might be about to say a poem.’
‘I’m not a poet either. We’re both safe. Now Bill, listen to me. Go to your window.’
‘I’m not going to the window.’
‘You’ve got to trust me Bill. I’m going to prove to you you’re not a poet and then you’ll be cured.’
‘You better not be lying to me Doctor, or working for the lizard, like David Ike said. What colour are your eyes Doctor? Do they ever change colour?’
‘Just go the window.’
I need to lie to him. I need a good lie so he doesn’t try to pull any tricks. This is dangerous, really dangerous. What am I doing? Just hang up now.
‘Bill?’
‘I’m here. I’m recording this conversation so they’ll catch you if I die. You’ll be a murderer.’
Maybe it’s Dr Anderson that’s doing all this. What if all the other people were also poets and they called him up and he made them talk poetry to him and then they died. But it’s okay I’m recording him. No, I’m not, that was a lie.
‘Bill?’
‘I’m here, I’m here. Don’t give me a poem. I won’t speak poetry.’
‘That’s because you can’t. Are you at your window?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, tell me what you see.’
‘Some houses.’
‘And what else?’
‘My car’s dirty.’
‘Anything else. Try to talk poetically.’
‘A fawning, a spindereling. An airplane.’
‘See?’
‘I can’t do poetry.’
‘Now you know it.’
‘I’m not a poet. Oh no!’
Hang up. I’ve blown it. That’s it. I knew I was a poet. I know that wasn’t really a poem but it was the seed of a poem and it’s planted in my mind and it’s gonna grow and then suddenly.
Okay no more words. Ever. Beep. Beep, be-beep, beep. Beeeeeeeep beeeep be-beep be-beep. Beep. Beeep. Beee-p. Beeeeeep. Beep. Beep. Be-beep beep, beep