Catherine, the gymnast of type-written lore
Yes she knew her hyphen from her underscore
But words were fleeting, shivering and pleating
Between sentences she always felt they were cheating
Depressing plastic maniacal keys she depressed
Arresting her attention was the soul she addressed
For you see, Catherine’s typewriter was alive
It captivated her with it’s cacophonous drive
Then she met a friend through some wicked lemon fingers,
Who told her it was lust in the machine that lingers
But whether it devours the words that she reels
Depended on her telling the machine how she feels
On a windowless morning sometime in the future
Past stilted on the slate she had sewn with some suture
She realized her friend's conclusion wasn't ripe
For all the machine told her was to “type, writer, type”.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
- suraj sharma
- my mind, therefore, becomes this outstretched field of immeasurable serenity, which, although illuminated at angles awkward and unfamiliar to my eyes - is neither dark nor twilit. The strange lighting turns the vacuous foreplay of shadows chasing shadows into an euphoric, almost utopian feeling which is held in suspension as long as this configuration of appearances beckons the restlessness of reason ever forward into the uncharted hinterlands of imagination while at the same time compelling me to bless the lighting director.
0 comments:
Post a Comment