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Filmore Townsend Jan 2013
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.
Alireza Zibaie Apr 2014
-
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.
Terry Collett May 2012
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.
topacio  Nov 2015
typewriter
topacio Nov 2015
my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines
Morgan  Aug 2013
Old Photographs
Morgan Aug 2013
I wish I had a typewriter
That a blue jay liked to rest on
Like power lines in pretty paintings
I wish I had a typewriter
That dispensed music notes
Incrementally
Like leafs from their trees
on an Autumn's evening
I wish I had a typewriter
who's letters shifted spaces
Rearranging themselves
into poetic little phrases
I wish I had a typewriter
that grew from a bud
And blossomed like a poppy flower
I wish I had a typewriter
that collected dust in its place
atop an old piano
In my faded pink guest bedroom
I don't have a faded pink guest bedroom
I don't have a guest bedroom
I don't have an old piano
I don't have a piano
I wish I had a piano
To grow old with
And a typewriter
To keep us company
In a faded pink guest bedroom
Poetoftheway Aug 2018
candle on the typewriter


~for V.B~


lit, to better see the typewriter keys,
as if the those longest fingers needed guidance as to
how to lay down a word, each a brick, mortared to the next
knowing full well, permanence a laughable notion,
and the old house lives on by the good graces of storm kings

the cat, lazy supervising, purring delightedly,
when the sunlight requests their lips porch presence
to see what the island gods have proffered to the inhabitants,
this new morning to feed the soul and the soil, and a cats tummy

never mind the mis-stacked old occupant documents,
important enough once, that too, yellowed by
times relentlessly agile agent aging imprimatur,
the candle is a needed, a promise to oneself, that the words
hidden in the keys, require that shadowed glow, to find the
way-out, to be released unto life, bonded onto bonded paper

you reveal in silent photos so much,
even your best work, a younger version,
who says a lit candle on a typewriter, that’s crazy,
and you laugh, crazy with - from words,
that reveal all, but not as much as the
light of candle burning on a typewriter
Poetic T Apr 2015
He was under the influence of ink,
A story wrote upon a typewriter,
Was it life he bled upon the white,
Could he change a moment, or was
All but preordained,
Mind,
Thought,
Fingers
Ever tapping like in Morse code,
Echoing out to those who never knew
That their life was a moment in
Black & white.
He would venture away, but never to far,
For life was but a button press away.
He found feathers nestled upon finished
Ink, a *** holding these reminders of how
Old Ink was.
He had tried a quill, but to no oval,
The typewriter was
His speech,
His voice,
Their moments
Captured like a photo, stillness in its frame.
But his pictures where words,
He was a writer of life's outside his own,
Some place he was never meant to see,
But he was their in his place.
Another chapter written for those living his
Words, he knew what was, yet by them unlived,
He was a guy with a typewriter
Who thought their moments out, lived and yet to be *lived.
Brandon Oct 2011
I sit at my computer
Typing words
To the softest
Almost silent click clack
Of keyboard beneath
My finger strokes
I yearn for an old school

DING – new line!

Typewriter
The loud
PUNCH
Of the keys
As rhythm, rhyme
Flows from my mind
To the coiled sheet
Of

DING – new line!

Paper
Hitting the keys
With effortless flow
Sometimes I reach for
A notebook
With all its lines
And structure
I quickly grab a

DING – new line!

Pen
Full of India ink
To have the ink flow
In one ongoing script
Of verses that

DING – new line!

Hurt
But then I give up
Because my hand
Simply cannot write
As much as my mind

DING – new line!

Pours
Rhythm and woes
And this typewriter
Always running out of

DING – new line!

Space
Has become very maddening
With the rewind
So I quickly switch back to my

DING – new line!

Computer
And continue writing
with out the stop of

*DING - new line!
There's a really heavy typewriter on the shelf above me.
It's old. It's broken. It's beautiful.
"I wish I could use it." is always my first thought when I stare up into its under-carriage of prongs and teeth.
It doesn't fit on the shelf, and it surely doesn't belong there.
My first thought should be "That may fall and **** me at any moment", but I think I avoid that thought because I kind of hope it does. What a way to go out. Not intentional. I didn't put it up there with the intention of it becoming some sort of Medieval time-bomb, but the symbology behind that accidental death would be enough for me to be satisfied with the ending of my life.
If you manage to banish the senseless fascination with your imagination's speculation of what people will think of you if you do THIS...or when THAT happens...then what's there to fear about failure? Failure just becomes progress at that point.
There's a really heavy typewriter on the shelf above me, and a part of me hopes that it falls and bashes my skull in.

— The End —