i sat at her typewriter
wearin’ plain white v-neck,
plaid WalMart shorts marr’d.
i sat at her typewriter
as we discuss’d life problems.
i sat at her typewriter
dividing interest between her and
the powerful feeling received
through uniform ballyhoo.
i sat at her typewriter
feinging, waiting for her
to say she’s too drunk.
i sat at her typewriter
as she went on with her
first-world problems.
i sat at her typewriter
as they exchanged
insults yell’d and
shard’d glass of broken jars.
i sat at her typewriter
as she dispensed her drug.
i sat at her typewriter
when her and the secondary-Virgo
did move to grind.
i sat at her typewriter
as i forged fragment’d
statements to poetry.
i sat at her typewriter
when she had
that look in her eyes.
i sat at her typewriter
as my life end’d.
i sat at her typewriter
after the snow sweat.
i sat at her typewriter
when she snap’d the spine of
her first horse Sassafras.
i sat at her typewriter
when i deluded myself
about loving her.
i sat at her typewriter
never any longer.

-
Passing idea
Clusters a spark
a mundane brainstorm  
And as it passes
Through the elastic mind

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before the idea vanishes
Before storm ceases

Mad,
Mad mind

-
Passing idea
space exploded within itself
atomic fusion instigated
The mundane universe
And it expands
Through the elastic space

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before a black-hole
Swallows my universe
to create another one

Mad,
Mad universe

-
Passing idea
Clusters of minds
Until civilizations are fused
Into mundane cultures
And they expand
Through the elastic generations

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before civilization zero
Is both dead and alive
In the schrodinger-like
Transition to civilization one

Mad,
Mad persons

-
Passing idea
Cluster of lonely universes
Until the almighty gravity
Loses its kingdom
To the thought of multiverses
And it expands
Through the elastic kinship

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before multiverses wonder
And discover:
They think, therefore they are.

Mad,
Mad multiverses

-
I am sitting at my typewriter
To capture an idea
whilst thoughts are passing through my cerebral cortex
Perhaps
Someone inside an earth-like neuron in my brain
Is sitting at his typewriter
With a writer’s block
Trying to make sense of the birth of me:
His equivalent of the big bang
a single atom
Giving birth to the energy
That shaped his universe - my cerebrum   

I am sitting at my typewriter
To capture an idea
Whilst the milky-way and Andromeda
Are to cross through a string of light-like gravitational paths  
Perhaps
The conscious of the universe
Ponders my existence
In a form of a passing idea

Mad,
Mad Alireza.

That year they gave Tess
her first typewriter. She’d
not need to borrow her
brother’s battered old piece
or write down her fragile
poems in her spiderlike
scrawl as her father called it.

The promise came while
she was getting her mind
together in that mental
asylum, after the mucky
love affair that went no
place and left her hanging
there, like one crucified
for all to see and most
to softly mutter and stare.

Get yourself mended girl,
Father said, and we’ll buy
you your own typewriter,
so you can stab away on
the keys to your heart’s
content and bring out
those poems of yours.

He never read her poems,
never read much apart
from the back page sport
or gawked at page 3 girls
with a tut tutting tongue.

That year she gazed out
of the wide barred window
of the asylum at the snow
on fields, at the seagulls
gathering and feeding behind
the faraway tractor as it
ploughed, at the grey
depressing sky, wondering
what it’d be like to not be,
wondering what the woman
with a cast in her eye, was
doing to herself in the toilets,
one night when she’d gone
in to *** unable to sleep.

The typewriter idea
and promise kind of got her
through the dark hours and
the ECT, and the following day
headaches and numbness.

After slitting her wrists (mildly,
a cry for help) she said on the
phone to her father, Come get
me out of this place, help me
get back together. Ok, he said,
Miss Humpty Dumpty, and he
put down the phone, and she
stood in the hall of the asylum
with the receiver in her hand,
the image of the typewriter
before her eyes, those poems
banging on the inside of her
head, new ones wanting to
get out, old ones left for dead.