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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
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Joe Thompson Nov 2020
Ode to the Serif

There are those I have heard that just couldn't care if
There were no letters left that featured a serif -
Old fashioned and useless and a bit of a joke
Those last little marks at the end of a stroke.
This is the age of Sans serifs designers may shout
(Sans being a French word that just means without,
which is odd in a way cause the word serif is dutch
and the Romans invented them - mixed up very much?)

Serifs are busy, Sans serifs are leaner
Sans serifs, they say have a more hip demeanor.
But I beg to differ. (you suspected I would)
I think that serifs are perfectly good.
They have class and panache and a long history
while Sans serif letters lack all mystery.
Imagine a monument - maybe marble or bronze
with the name of the hero set in bold comic sans.
So be like the Romans, who in sunshine or drizzle
just finished each letter with a smack on the chisel.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
psiór vs.
                        pśιór "debate".

every area of interests has its cul de sac,
its brick-wall, a dead-end as it were,
a point where transcendence is
welcomed, unavoidable,
but nonetheless: miserable stalled.

philosophers have the cartesian
   cogito ergo sum -
whatever arithmetic of wording
they produce, not even samson
could topple this pillar of foundation
for the temple of thought.

the same is with my example...
it would appear that the diacritical
**** ι with a floating head i
did not translate further, beyond
the same treatment of yot (j) -
(gee a jeep! yodh: serif (י) and
rashi (

yet by oath alone, hebrew orthography
invokes itself in letters...
unlike the post-roman orthography
of words...

                   ι    י      
                      Y         (    .    )
                      ي

                            ­        floating alongside
e...
         if only the greek sigma
   had the tetragrammaton of the arabic "ι" -
the initial σ (يـ‎) & the final ς (ـي) are
indeed there, but what of the isolated
(ي‎) & the medial (ـيـ‎) - unless of course
of course we treat to invoke the
upper-case: Σ - such as is missing in arabic,
and is only a question of: how much
the prolonged line?

p.s.

   why would i ever like the evolution
of gaming?
  well... teenage boy, "trapped",
by a video game,
what were my usual saturday mornings?
strapped to an PS1....
tenchu, metal gear solid...
       i am a gamer,
like most people are readers
on the *******...
      i'm here to play a game,
with indefinite time constraints,
as i am concerned about
  massaging my ****,
to ease my prostate concerns...
wankers.

          i'm still going to listen
to byzantine chants...
    because? modern gaming,
well, sure,
   it's, "free"...
but there are in-built
           payment processors...
additions, etc.,

   like me and my maine ****
cat,
      6 candles....
i know he wants to "escape"
via an open window,
but before he can "escape"
(i will let him put)...
he has to play a blinking
game with him,
i squirm, i close my eyes,
he does likewise...
  the candles are still lit...

but gaming has evolved...
"once upon a time"
you'd run into a games shop,
tongue waggling...
for the next big release...

      i know... i know...
war robots...
           that mobile game...
2 lame 2 blame...
that's my user name...
i haven't spent a dime / cent /
penny on this game...

what i do like,
is playing the game with
a...  ah! - - - - - - - - - -

but times have changed,
it was no longer about RPG games
akin to final fantasy VII,
and cheat books...

or playing Sims 3000 finding
the escape wormhole
of playing a Sim playing
a computer game: inside a computer
game...
            
when you bought a game for
$50 bucks...
and was never told:
it's "free"...
but then have to invest in
******* overpriced additions...

- - - - - - - - - handicap!
        i like war robots,
because?
       i like playing with a handicap!
the people who spend money?
mostly Koreans, Russians,
Kazakhs... H'americans,
Brazilians...
            you know,
what really evolved in gaming?
the chance to play in a non-NPC
environment...
   to play alongside live gamers...

that **** broke the ******* camels
****, sack, and *******...
last time i checked...
women were more into gaming
than the men were:
candy cwash saga...
   men fathomed gaming
via the narrative component...
but what of this additional
payments?!
in the good old days:
you paid 20 quid, you had your narrative...
now, "fwee"... but,
no wait... there are... additional
payments, you see?

i like playing a game,
handicapped...
in a free game environment...
when, your prized asset
is patience?
and all the rich arabs / russians
are spending money,

   and you, simply, wait...
and perfect your tactics?!
while they are buying up all
the "cheat codes"?
        sure... they'll serve the purpose
of staging 4000 battles...
you, eh... around 300+...
but their % rate?
      6... they have a 6% rate of success...
with 4000 or so battles...
while you?
           300+ battles?
roughly in the range of
60 - 50% success rate...
        gaming, has changed,
games were never "free",
as they are "free" now...
        
   hell, i'm not a gamer to be honest...
some people treat taking a ****
as the only time required to read
a book, i treat the same "timed" allowance
to play a game...

                 my mother is a gamer,
we've reached a moment in history where
women will play more mobile games
than ever boys would play,
video, narrative games...

          my mother is a gamer,
that's just eerie...
                   i have a second game
in tow....
   a blinking game with my maine ****
cat, surrounded by 6 candles...
oh he has the garden for the worth of
night...

but gaming has changed...
    i like the handicap dynamics of
war robots...
       like **** will i spend any money
on the game...
  i want to play against
the paying russians, chinese, arabs
and kazakhs....

          ******* - my favourite mode...
team work...
every single time i leave
my rogatka to jump and sprint
capturing beacons
when the battle is almost over...

thank **** i just bypassed
the evolution of PS1 into PS2 and PS3
and whatever else came...
     i missed about 10+ years of
gaming...
   and i hit the beehive jukebox...
of games without NPC characters...

i revised gaming at the right time,
when NPC disppeared,
completely,
and gaming became revised
by the internet live-event
game-membership.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
the following disambiguation debate,
relegating orthography toward the status of
"diacritical" aesthetic -
    and diacritic use, per se:

psiór vs.
                       pśιór debate;

the word in bold just denotes: a dog.

we all know that there are two letters
in the english language, that have been
***** diacritically - name iota:
for j is usually confused with y,
in that piquant sense of differentiation:
yap *** - yapping - jaw mongering?
          
every area of interests has its cul de sac,
its brick-wall, a dead-end as it were,
a point where transcendence is
welcomed, unavoidable,
but nonetheless: miserably stalled.

philosophers have the cartesian
   *cogito ergo sum
-
whatever arithmetic of wording
they produce, not even samson
could topple this pillar of foundation
for the temple of thought.

the same is with my example...
it would appear that the diacritical
**** of ι with a floating head i
did not translate further, beyond
the same treatment of yot (j) -
gee a jeep! yodh: serif (י) and
rashi -

yet by oath alone, hebrew orthography
invokes itself in letters...
unlike the post-roman orthography
of words... the "compass"

                   ι    י      
                      Y         (    .    )
                      ي

                            ­        floating alongside
e...

         if only the greek sigma
   had the tetragrammaton of the arabic "ι" -
the initial σ (يـ‎) & the final ς (ـي) are
indeed there, but what of the isolated
(ي‎) & the medial (ـيـ‎)?  
             unless of course
                        we treat to invoke the
upper-case: Σ - such as is missing in arabic,
and is only a question of: how much
the prolonged line?

   it still begs the question,
if the element of diacritical use is lost
upon the iota...
                   can there be an orthographic
"beauty is in the eye of the beholder"
change in the aesthetic of applicable
diacritical markings?

  the debate is rather simple:

  either decapitate the unnecessary head off
the iota: or keep it,

        psiór        vs.
                               ­           pśιór

because it within the eye of the beholder
at this point...
           it's not that hard to confuse
J with Y, and give rise to the christian endeavour:
son before the father, father within the son,
and the congregating, willing to enforce
   a fake billion, unlike the tight-knit chinese...

you do the math... a billion, but at what expense /
expanse of territory?
                      look where the true billionth is:
a tiny land area by comparison...
  you **** the letter iota:
and then morph a yod into a J,
while engaging in ancient mutational
permutations of "radioactive" goo,
i.e. γΥ -
                       yeah yeah yeah,
  vs. rastafarian jah jah, jah... wait for it:
oh **** me: ha ha!
    
in english, the philosophical cul de sac
is the missing diacritical markings...
  english, without diacritical invitation:
has, absolutely, no, concept, of, orthography...

sure... that's why its hell-bent on metaphysics,
esp. populist metaphysics akin to
the matrix trinity of movies:
              they always jump to the conclusions
concerning the nature of "reality"...
  which you can understand,
given that they have no idea within
the confines of considering orthography...
it's alien to them...
     **** knows what the para- prefix could
show us...
                        ok ok... we already know
the joke by alfred jarry in
the exploits of dr. faustrool -
with his "witty" invention of
                 pataphysics -
                i swear this french dwarf inveted
the spaghetti (string) theory with
that mutation of the prefix ascribed locality
on the beneze ring, i.e. how para- became pata-.
whatever...
  
but without a concept of diacritical
appropriation,
   you are only left with an endeavour into
into metaphysics...
   and never minding the mediating
dogma / fancy of orthography...
                        
     oh well... that's the english language for you...

god i love being a pompous *******,
who knows english better than the natives;
not that i have an elevated sense of worth
because of this,
  only that i appreciate the sense
of devaluing the origins of: said speech:
as if to take out a whip,
    and whip the lazy *******
                       on into the slaughterhouse!
Jason Drury Jul 2018
You can control love,
as you type.
You can change the style,
which evokes feeling.
Script — curvy lines,
fitting for passion.
Sans Serif — Strong,
but friendly.
Grunge — Anger or,
vengeful.
Serif — Elegant,
and structured.
This four letter word —
is a shapeshifter.
Shifting styles, weights and
kerning on a whim.
You can control love,
highlight and change it.
Again.

But, love is fluid,
as fonts are to typographers,
as words are to poets.
Thomas Thurman May 2010
Remember all the old familiar faces?
Helvetica's the nicest of the lot.
Gill Sans and Johnston take the second places;
It seems as though the serif has been shot.
Verdana has its own intrinsic glories;
The fairest text that ever left my desk
Was set in these-- for essays or for stories.
But using them for sonnets?  That's grotesque.
   And gravestones are a special case as well:
   A mortal lack of serif fonts would be
   A certain kind of typographic hell
   With Comic Sans for all eternity.
In death, the Roman lettering is best.
May flights of serifs sing thee to thy rest.
Not the most serious thing I've ever written.
softcomponent Dec 2013
slumbering cream-cheese on the tip of
an unhungried tongue... in past lives,
we met and you called me crazy. for
once, we are on the same level and
neither of us are not untethered in
the nether of whenever. kindred
souls know how to laughalot,
whereas unkindred soulzzz
bite each other with
elongated continuities
of 'Zed.'

we are perhaps both of these
at different times, but there
is never a lack of love tho
a lack of passion might
have done us well as
well as done us
harm all
depending on how
bent-outta-shape we'd
cared to be. there is
nothing inside of me
that says winter more
than holding yer hand
down the length of the
pole-line while you wore
flats and freezed and
I was too afraid to talk
very loud becuz a small-
town meant solitude and
I couldn't stand solitude
as I wasn't a solid, but a
gas and a liquid too afraid
to become the temporary
icy toothache of a transient
season.

I will love you forever,
but don't tell yerself that.

there's a dead guy in the body,
but he's only fast asleep.
dedicated to Amanda Munro
softcomponent Oct 2013
I will clamor atop mountains and fire flares from Everest to contest the interrelated anonymity of can'ts and don't's and wasted places with covered spaces taken by sadists with nothing left but the trace of a face; have-not's become robots in the mist of my nicotine blood-clot, distraught because it's all a ******* weak-spot

if you hit hard enough.

if you spit far enough.

if you write like it might make a difference and not just a scuff on the new polished hood of a ******* Mercedes Benz..

who are you again?

- - -

I tackled my trousers like they were Bowser in Mario, I'm still looking for my own impresario.. go on, try and call me another Joe Blow and I'll know that you meant to say I'm on a quest to Joe Blow your mind.
as far as I'm aware we're both just as blind so whatever I find in my mind is a sign of the times I confine to finite from infinity; I'm looking to have Salinger-like salinity. **** masculinity, it's all femininity, and within divinity you'll find me in vicinity.. scared, frightened, lost to evil affinity with zilch for priority.

I'm aimless. Goalless and faceless a ghoul who wishes to fill his void with school.. but the rule is disillusioned, imprisoned and moving, and written on loose-leaf like life.

I'm worth the hype.

but I'm not your type, I'm your type-face and font, san-serif you flaunt, and look at us now, it's just blood on our hands.. our names written out in childlike comic sans. we wanted, we waned, we haunted, we craned

our necks

to look past the deck

saw islands as specs

in the distance.

this whole life is persistence, and some hallow insistence that I am much more than industrial pistons.. so listen

you wanted this, and I wanted that.. I'm not so pretty with eyelashes to bat, so instead I still sit and I sat.. past tense and all that, but the grammar is last in my mind as I tap on the keyboard.

"Sing Free Bird!" screams the crowd. "Be a Free Bird!" I vowed

to myself.. on a shelf, eyes wide open and melting the matter that makes up this tattered trash called reality; but in all actuality I'm actually insane. plain as a bagel washed-off in the rain.. and just as soggy.

just as groggy. just a hot-key for those who forgot me ( and they're all free... now).  

I wipe the sweat off my brow as I cow-tow to the ouch in my bones, a lack of texts to my phone as I read Buddhist koans while my stomach moans like the fall of the Roman Empire. my entire life is on fire.. or was. now it's just moldy, just old bread with a fuzz.. so I tossed it again and forgot about zen because it's irrelevant, not a 10 out of 10, I can name off the labels, samsara, nirvana, brahmanic, the Lama.. but somehow I'm just as empowered to cower.. to tower above like a camera angle provided by angels who dangle on quantum entanglement.  

I strangle myself in profundity, it's no fun to be me.. sometimes. but what do I see when I turn out the light? I can't tell you, but I know that it's mine.

and I'm fine. as long as it's mine, I'm fine. I'll find my right rhymes as finite time slithers by. I'll find my right rhymes by the day that I die. and we'll all sigh in relief..

*** then I'll finally be the thief to steal your attention with words such as these:
go on, try and call me another Joe Blow and I'll know that you meant to say I'm on a quest to Joe Blow your mind. as far as I'm aware we're both just as blind so whatever I find in my mind is a sign of the times I confine to finite from infinity; I'm looking to have Salinger-like salinity. **** masculinity, it's all femininity, and within divinity you'll find me in vicinity.. head spinning in constant affinity.

**finishing.
Dyanova Sep 2014
I WANT TO SCREAM AT
YOUR FACE, THE SERIF SHARPNESS
OF WORDS DRAWING blood.
Marsha Singh Aug 2011
without you, i am sans serif –
unfinished still, a half-etched glyph.
you are my pitch; i write for this –

each arc and shoulder loops and dips
towards the softest landing of your lips.
Ethan Taylor Apr 2011
Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is
as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip
of my words. My language trembles with desire.
-Roland Barthes

My* language is a skin I have outgrown.
It sloughs off in flakes,
leaving letters or the occasional
ill-suited, illegible word
trailing behind me.

I pick at adverbs and articles
hanging from my fingertips;
This morning I pulled a whole phrase
off my arm like a sunburn.

My language, once alight,
now settles like cinders
on the ground,
around the shower drain,
upon my sheets;
My language no longer serves me.

Peel my vocabulary off my back,
tear my diction from my shoulders,
and my syntax from my chest;
Scratch the punctuation off my face—
my lips are chapped with parentheses.

Tomorrow I will have shed my language—
Unbound from an ill-fitting lexicon—
coughed the alphabet from my lungs
and exhaled the last serif
like cigarette smoke
to find the world new,
uncontained and undefined.
In addition to Roland Barthe, Margaret Atwood's "You Begin" contributed to the original idea behind this poem.
Chris Saitta Jul 2019
She is the typesetter’s “e”

The once-rounded uncial script,
Unbroken like the solemn vow of a monk,
His whisper, a shepherd of words under the cowl,
Murmurations of the Holy Mother to the lambswool shroud of candlelight.

His candle-flock of dreams to some hill of penitent towers, war-cowed
And broken open like faith-unfended helmets, littering the ground,
With their unspeaking tassels in babbling pagan sound of wind,
That hill too, once-rounded bare under the glittering apostles of twilight.

In the abbeywork of air, calligraphy was a cipher of souls,
He unwrested demons from an inkwell of sunsets, smothered them in blotting paper,
Freed the incarnate whole to the book of hours, nib-pointed in quills and illuminated in gold,
Line by line, in Carolingian winding sheets, he returned the misshapen to the fold,
To the carpet page of home and the warm ligatures of their waiting women.
So the shutters of the heavenly house could blow light in slanted rays to a wilderness in storm.

But he never tamed the aero-elongated, descender of Troy in a “t,”
He never knew the unholiness of the underscore or fonts as ******,
Or the world unwilling to know itself in serif robes of ancient lore.
His life was a simple rounded-out syllable of one man,
Left in the muddied, unintelligible text of faith and war.

She is the typesetter’s “e” and now belongs to any hand.
For slide video:  https://www.instagram.com/p/BzmNoRhl5_w/?igshid=n0ukp97qre18

Uncial script was predominantly used between 400-800 AD and is a majuscule script (only in capital letters)
True uncial scripts were unbroken, meaning the pen wasn’t lifted.
Carolingian script was the predominant minuscule script between 800-1200 AD and was used in the Medieval ages.
Other calligraphy terms include “blotting paper,” “carpet page,” “ligatures,” and “descenders.”
JA Doetsch Oct 2012
The boys, the boys, they can't help but stare at her
as she's talking, she's walking in iambic pentameter

She breathes in italics
Words fall from her lips
San-serif movements
Punctuate her hips

She writes, she paints, her dreams soak the paper
such beauty, such beauty, my willpower waivers

Her eyes tell a story
in which I want to belong
Only she knows the ending
as she has all along

I wish, I want, a new story to start
with her, with her, with all of my heart
bella Oct 2018
art
this is my art

i present it to you all

SANS SERIF
clearly stating the emotions
hidden under layers
a metaphor
a simile
idiom
alliteration

words thatteachers throw atme to absorblike a sponge

“it’s ur art¡”
“ur own          «Iîn†érP®´e´†å†iøñN«  “

i like art
it fills the holes that were once numb with feeling.

A
   R
      T
      T
   R
A

look at this creation.
all over the place.


i like crying to kahlids saved
i like laughing to jon hughes ferris buellers day off
i like watching
reading
listening to
singing
writing
creating
experiencing
Art


this piece of art.
it’s messy. ive put too few or too many s p a c e s . ive seriously *******!E'd up my grammar. Ive used slang and Incorrect™ spelling. my fonts are sometimes hard to read and I haven’t even Began to think about using colour. My english Teecher would hate this.

this piece of art; is a mess

and isn’t it Beautiful
This was the most fun ive had writing a poem. If u want the website for the fonts dm me. U should definitely try this sometime, and lmk if u do! its a great way to relieve stress and prevent writers block. Idk y but hp has a problem with the fonts and emojis so make sure u copy it before u save/publish it. Have a good day or night!¡
Ron Gavalik Dec 2018
I’m trying  <!DOCTYPE html>
<html> Baby, I’m trying <head>
<!-- HTML Codes by Quackit.com -->
I’m trying <title> to see through
all the weeds "width=device-width">
<style> of our modern landscape
but I know my search {:left;background}
is a futile effort.{font-family:Arial, sans-serif}
{font-family:Georgia, serif} This is our world
now, and I’m just trying ;14px;font
</style>
to see
</head>
through
<body>
the madness
</body>
of the weeds.

-Ron </head> Gavalik </body>
Vamika Sinha Oct 2015
No, I don't want to write a sonnet;
to self-lock in an octave
only clasping a rusty key
-volta-
leading to another office cubicle
efficiently labelled sestet
for its six undone quotas
waiting coolly for my
calculating.

I want to untuck my shirt, Whitman;
to unleash words to gather at seams
then tear them open
like bursting blood cells crowding
out of a wound.
I do not want to fit
flesh into a 'perfect' Barbie membrane,
let me stretch the skin taut as sheets
so I can feel the redness
and gouge underneath.

Clarity glazed the Classical sonata
opaque; staves of controlled fantasy
so imaginable, like an illogically
round orange, sliced
in concaves fat
with pulp, each ripeness methodically
connected by thin breath threads.

This is why we have madness, need it;
bless the ****** of brilliance in Beethoven
symphonies, the metallic muscling
of Ginsberg verses, electronic with strange beauty, holy
and unholy, every ****** mess
in between

The heart can't suffice
by merely inhaling
glitter; I can't dare remember the sane
pretty sighing of a Petrarchan
uttering; canned love,
a predictable malaise packaged
neatly in a bland tome, most likely
beige, with the fashionable odor
of bookish age

And so, serif-writing sweetheart
please don't ask
me to write a sonnet.

too comfortable to tuck my shirt in,
I won't touch I won't touch I won't touch
Monica Figueroa Mar 2010
The sound invades my audio waves,
Distorting the tension,
Erasing the lines
Between the drudgery and the constant,
The eternal struggle and daily events.
I’m blind.
Utterly confused and
Sans serif.
A matter of happenstance.
Degradation of mental cells
Imaginary particles, dancing.
Vibrating in one big **** of a dream.
Copyright 2010 Monica Figueroa
Jade Mar 2021
Trial i: Crimson


By: The Mad Poetess


Purpose:

I shall birth
a new colour.

Sprung from the womb
of passion & rage--

cacophonous.

The name of the labour:
The Crimsoning

after the spawn:

Crimson.

Hypothesis:

from the quill
baptized in crimson ink

to the torn parchment

poetry shall hail down

like a meteor shower.

Materials:

- Sewing needle
- Blood
- Berries harvested from the Belladonna plant (devil's cherry)
- Teardrops
- Artist's palette
- Inkwell
- Bunsen burner
- Quill pen
- Parchment


Procedure:

1. With the needle, ***** finger; remove needle at the first dewdrop of blood
2.  Crush and mix devil's cherries with teardrops upon artist's palette
3. Add dewdrop and rest of concoction on to palette and mix using whatever is convenient (fingers, paint brush, hair, etc)
4. Transfer Crimson to inkwell
5. Place in well above bunsen burner
6. Burn for 40 days and 40 nights until Crimson is matured
7. Dip quill into ink
5. Press quill to parchment
6. Write poetry


Observations:

The parchment kindles
beneath the ink

pages curl up
at the corners
like Medusa’s hissing serpents

every gawking
letter
a petrification of
what could have been

every lowercase t
crucified

every serif
a burning branch.

Is this the context
of a self-fulfilling prophecy?

To write poems about forest fires
and then

burn?

~

My poems and I:

on the cusp of extinction.

I throw my head back
at a ghastly angle

like the ancient
Ornithomimus.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

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The jelly-jiggling slop first had to flop
before it could waddle
ashore into this muddle of last gasps
and becoming
where middling deaths swaddled in gauzy breaths
emit a consonant-rich sussuro:

If you don’t recall the swirl-swept depths
where we furled it,
can you keep that promise in shallows pocketed?


So we began, and with the begetting
a rosy cloud plumed forth from our two
terraformed lips,
its delicately distinct petals mushrooming out
with a thorn-less, serif-soft voice
to bestow this frothy font of atomic confusion:

Let the forgetful sea rinse over now-handy fins
to hard-edge etch
their starfish straight lines in a slurp of soggy sand.


The mothering molecules haven’t lost
their smothering ache to forgive
our thickened skins
and they still cling to us, cooing about a lulled drift
past bye when we’ll climb the thinning links
back to homes cloaked in a sifted light:

*The loves of your heart-filled heads, no matter
how starkly pled,
all waste away to join us in our timeless waiting.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Joshua Wink Dec 2015
Me pay you $15

NO

Include typeface options
Serif, sans-serif, monospace
They cost $0

N

You pay me 51$
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
oh, what glorious things the canadians and americans think of the british, in their set narrative when a tragedy plagues these isles; mainly stressing the british concept of tolerance. well... perhaps the morbid politeness toward muslims, that the hindus didn't get, back in the 1960s? hmm... or the bourgeois media class... with their affectionate portrayal eastern european builders... well... **** me, are all my brethren builders? we all seem to be builders all of a sudden, like that's something to demean people of skill. you know how degenerate english builders are? how unskillful they are, in the roofing trade? my father can show me roofers with 20 years worth of "experience", and the photographs are worth a good long pause, and lament... they were changing the tiles on my roof, and one night, with heavy rain pouring down, water was seeping through my ceiling... scots were known to be the best roofers in the 1990s... replaced by poles.

anyway, talk of graphemes...
   polish has, in all honesty,
         four potentials to become graphemes,
i don't know how, but they could become
unique script elements...
         alas
          sz       cz        rz            dz
are in their own category, distinct from
  the category of grapheme...
                        it's almost a shame,
               the four being *digraphs
...
   oh... and you know that there's a trigraph
in the english language?
             you know it, i'm sure...
                                                     y = why,
but no one will tell you that that is a trigraph,
even the dictionary won't tell you it's a trigraph,
it'll tell you why is either an adverb and exclamation
or a noun... but never that it's also a trigraph
         of what is also a monograph, represented by
y... and perhaps, just perhaps,
               this is just one of those mysteries
worth excavating from the tombs of the tetragrammaton,
and set against a rosetta stone of the modern
era...                in what becomes of
    the hebrew serif י...
                                     perhaps, well, only possible
in english the trigraph         why...
          encompassed in the monograph that's y;
and that's only one h short to complete the equation.
Ado A Feb 2010
Coming home to find that you had changed all the hinges
Was worse than losing a limb.
For six years, the sound of your door creaking
Open at three AM signaled me to
Pretend to be asleep, to hang up the phone or
Close the book and squeeze my eyes shut.
I knew if my sister left her room, I knew
When my mother was cooking dinner.
Now the silence is a personal affront, the opposite of ma,
this is the terrible discomfort of not knowing who is coming or going.

When my sister was away, hearing her
Door squeak open on occasion made me
Feel as though she still resided here
Her ties have finally been severed, and she
Hasn’t even finished undergrad yet. This is akin
To replacing all of our larynxes with computers.

When we open our mouths, pale blue text
Boxes with rounded edges and sans-serif phrases
Float out and hover noiselessly.
MutteredtheMuse Aug 2014
Shhh!
I'm straining to hear
(I admit, this is my greatest fear)
thundering, rolling silence
boulders loosened
parched from a dry spell
not able to find the words to tell
nor a drop in the hollow well
a writers ramblings that freely clutter
thoughts, ideas, those clever lines I mutter
All taken for granted, perhaps there's just nothing more
needing to be said, it never before felt like a chore
Comfortable as clockwork, like a heartbeats drum
Absent, broken, chaotic ideas now that make me look dumb
A river of words, a waterfall of passion, that carries me
taken by the current now lost at sea
Dry and dammed, a beavers work,
also called 'writers block', a place where evil idleness may lurk
Reassured by friends and family to not worry
it will be back and come in a flurry
But they don't hear the voice
or comprehend inspiration is not a choice
Yet I should confess
I am responsible for this lazy mess
It's not as though I haven't tried
"I wrote a little today," I lied.
Sterile white paper mirroring my thoughts, blank stares
inky shapes, pixels, sans serif, no one cares
Interrupted by any distraction
Even the most tedious jobs holds some attraction
Mopping, scrubbing, fluffing, dusting
Acid in those scribbled notes on torn paper rusting
**** in chair with rolling fingertips like the roll of a drum
Waiting for that muse, my writing voice to come...
Jordan Kit Nov 2010
I knew you before we ever met.
I felt our feelings,
Ruminated over our thoughts.
I clung to our convictions,
Was crucified for our flaws.
I didn't write for you,
Yet was delighted
When you understood.
I gave you my hard copy,
Creased down the middle and bent from nervous energy,
Typed twenty-six point font
(These drunk eyes of mine strained for less).
You gave me your hard copy.
I never saw it coming.
Neatly kept,
Typed with handsome typewriter slab serif.
Bursting with honesty,
That person-to-person
Truth that I value over all.
The occasional typo
Revealed to me the process,
The ecstatic pleasure in creation
That I've felt before.
You on your typewriter,
I in marker on the window's glass canvas.
The next night
We joined you for drinks and for good company.
Talked poems,
Talked Whitman,
Talked dumb society,
Talked records.
In drunken elation seven true hearts
Howled to heaven,
Played music,
Performed clumsy art.
I had more drinks.
Relished the night
Shared with kindred souls.
The night went on.
You asked for your coat,
Which I mechanically retrieved.
Stepped out and into the cold
With no coat of my own.
As you nervously lit your cigarette,
I knew something
Was amiss.
"It's nothing."
That's how I knew,
It was everything.
bulletcookie Mar 2017
this morning started in Italic-
rivulets of soft rain rebelling
joining forces in a barrel
sounding an echoed chant

bold-print and sun bright be
when magic, through fingers, slips
and those fairy wings feel clipped
let go that pitter-patter of pity

Ariel, sans-serif, bound no more
a lion, lambent, unto its end's
into a flight of clouds and more
grasping as above, so amend

-cec
Chris Slade Jun 2020
Blessed are the sign makers
for they shall do overtime
social distancing notices
and warnings galore…
means extra work
for those who hope to inform.
Reflecting the changes
in a mixed up world…
There’s serif, sans serif, cursive,
leaded, kerned, font smoothed, curled.
Helvetica, Univers, Futura & Gill
Classic fonts urging you -  Stand Still!…
Don’t cross that line…
Follow the science… Divine!
Do the 2 metre 2 step
the 1 metre Shimmy…
The retailers are back
saying Gimme, Gimme, Gimme.
Women want to shop…
Blokes just want to be blokes
and stand outside!
It’s a sign of the times folks…Stay Out!
Onside!
Goal!!!
However many trades hit the economic wall
the signmakers & writers out there, they’ll outlive us all!
Blessed are the sign makers!
Some people have been doing very well out of lockdown
Alice Vsquez Jul 2011
What was about 2 a. m. that always inspired her? Why did the sky have to be pitch dark for her to finally find her answer? Why couldn’t she simply control her mind at her own will? She wondered all of this as she lay in bed; her room was completely obscure, her computer screen the only source of light. She continued typing, the keyboard composing a uniform beat as she translated her abstract thoughts, regular habitants of her subconscious, in to words. Dark san serif characters that by themselves meant nothing but united could open worlds that have never been conceived before. She sighted pausing as she realized a word didn’t work at all, she racked her brains till she found a synonym that enabled the harmony of the prose to lighten. She smiled as she always did when she realized how writing was an intricate and bewildering process. How it took a life of its own and made her simply a tool to the construction of whatever was dying to get out of her limited human intellect.
Juliana Apr 2021
Strands of brown scattered
every which way, my hand
runs through my hair again,
my breathing deep.

Papers seemingly scattered,
a groove permanently centered
on the futon so deep I could fall,
deeper,
deeper,

Until my dreams
become my reality,
the words in my brain
painted onto the landscape,
my characters as real
as actors, newfound friends.

A knock on the door
snaps my thoughts back
into a file folder,
circled back to when
needed the least.

Who’s there?

The door opens,
breath catching
like a wish upon a star,
a man dressed
in a black suit standing
in the doorframe.

I’ve seen him before,
not once, but once
for every season,
a repeating figure
as familiar as my heart,
as unique as days
in the calendar.

I call his name,
the version matching summer
when the warm rays
fated to blind his brother,
when his sister destined
to lay across the asphalt,
her last breath a song,
voice fluttering,
soaring among the eagles.

The man says hello,
I ask if he’s real.

He assures me he is,
he has escaped the confines
of a page, allowed to dance
in the breeze, stroll in the sun,
find his way to me.

I ask of his family, his girl.
He answers, matching
to my memory meticulously.
His turn to present a question to me.

An offer to accompany
him to his world.
To feel the safety
of those pages,
the serif text wrap
around my body,
my organs spilling
onto the page
adding to it all
of my being.

I could find my home.
Be with those I love.

I answer him.
Pretend the formatting saved (first 'deeper' should be indented once, second 'deeper' indented twice).
Katherine Jul 2013
I've been known to
write stories
Instead of moving
Like my bending wrist
Knows just what she's
doing
Reality is there
Smothered under a blanket
Of scribbles and drawings
Some hopeful dreams
I think I made this
More than it was
Meant to be

(Writing
about writing
is so cliche)

But I cling to my words
Like I'm dangling
High up off the ground
Holding tight to the edge of
Serif-fonted letters

I always thought you knew me better.

And I've always tried to see the light
but in doing so
I never saw the darkness
For what it was
Elizabeth Hynes Sep 2014
She sits and ponders
What she might do
Gets nothing right
Falls out of love
With life

She reads books
Attends sessions
A bystander
Empty handed

If and if only are her motifs
She writes in sans serif
font waste time
Nahal Aug 2019
I miss the sound of typing on the Mac keyboard
I miss the serif font of the words I observe on the screen
I miss the fluidity of which the words flow out of my mind like seamless fountain water
I miss the inspiration from a deep love
I miss insomniac nights, with bright Apple lights
I miss creative expression
I miss thesaurus searches and RhymeZone
I miss lyrics from frank songs
I miss rhythm and blues background music
[Unfinished]
Jonathan Moya Mar 2019
The weavers of the plains are tireless workers
poor but honest, always trusting the generosity
of an unlocked door to let in a husband working
nights at the print and design shop, finishing that
last small sign full of eclairs glazed with the most deliciously  appealing serif  font for the new
French bakery off of main and twenty-third

or the plumber who heard about that
slow running toilet on the second floor
who leaves the bill neatly near the vanity
knowing the check will come with
the Wednesday amble and update chat

or the mechanic who can be trusted with the
keys and a blank check  on the front seat
of that old blue Ford that is leaking green.

The weaver mother with seven children,
threads pieces for their school newspaper,
spins fine clear aqua yarn showing other kids
how to swim, substitute teaches so that she
can bind their minds into a chalkboard panel
of good knowledge, even drives the school bus
if that is what the thread requires to be strong.

The weaver farmer sees the Nebraska soil
is thready, dry, hard to till,   harder
to water, that crops can’t be harvested
without the abundant help of others.

In it they see a tapestry,
the people it’s colors
everything needing a tight loom
for it to work, survive and thrive  
and bind forever together.


So, they are intentionally local knowing
machine yarn eventually unravels,
that good thread can’t be found online,
and that the best panels in the tapestry
are the ones that come from common life.

— The End —