"typer" poems
small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.
but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane
as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words--but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.
looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beautiful woman to walk in.
being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.
being old
does
too.
14.2k
drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
dwindling twilight
liver gone
kidneys going
pancrea pooped
top-floor blood pressure
while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my toes
no woman will live with me
no Florence Nightingale to watch the
Johnny Carson show with
if I have a stroke I will lay here for six
days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, wrists, head
the radio playing classical music ...
I promised myself never to write old man poems
but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-
cause I've long gone past using myself and there's
still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from
the typer
pour another glass and
insert
make love to the fresh new whiteness
maybe get lucky
again
first for
me
later
for you.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
7.9k
I'm turning into to this robot maniach,
This I don't give a **** attitude
This I got no feelings what so ever
Typer thing
I'm turning into this I don't care
What people say
I'm turning into this,I'll deal with it tommorow
I'm turning into this whatever happens happens
I'm turning into this IDC typer chick.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
Sipping midnight whiskey behind the typer,
staring at a blank spot on the wall,
fingers frozen to the keyboard in mid-sentence,
another wave of anguish
floods the mind.
The spot on the wall is a sounding board
to rail against enemies
and debate ideas,
and howl the cries of a madman
who will forever ponder
damaged souls left
in his wake.
Sins committed once belonged to others.
Then I learned how to inflict pain
in my own style.
Now, regrets languish
in booze-soaked reflections.
They stir quiet torment,
a just retribution
for honest men
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
That bartender poured my bourbon
and took an interest in my life.
'What's wrong, pal?
You can tell me.
I have all the answers.'
'Great,' I said. 'I don't know
any of the questions.'
For the rest of the night,
he left me with my typer
and silently refilled
the bourbon.
-Ron Gavalik
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 7:16 PM UTC
Note To The Reader: Attempting to read all of these would be ridiculous but I hope that you can scroll through and hopefully see something you can connect to.....
1. I am sad or unhappy a lot
2. I am happy sometimes though and so I try to make other people laugh then to make up for the times I make them cry
3. I love sunny days with a light breeze and alternately heavy rain and thunderstorms
4. I am a sucker for all things involving sugar in all its forms
5. I am an analyzer
6. I am a worrier
7. I am messy
8. I am opposed to people who aren't themselves and people who apologize for saying the truth
9. I am a terrible typer and speller
10. Fine is a word I use for almost everything
11. I dislike spending time with most of the people I know
12. I dont think the apocalypse would be a bad thing
13. Eight is my lucky number
14. I love books as they are my escape
15. I am in love
16. I want to be an artist
17. Music is my life and the reason I'm still alive
18. I only watch really funny movies or really sad movies
19. I love making lists
20. I love buying new notebooks and pencils
21. I'm self conscious and stubborn
22. I'm mildly lazy and very direct
23. Obsessed with DIY
25. Im a freak about germs
26. I am and have been depressed from a very young age
27. My favorite colors are blue and brown
28. I believe in magic but not true love
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
as I sat here alone tonight
I took my look around the place
listening to the magical, talented
voice of Mr. Leon Bridges
and begin to think about
people who I once knew, but
now are strangers, and strangers
who are kind of a family now
and those who've never left my side
I think about past flings
long nights, days of tears
weeks of uncertainty, years of regret
thoughts that only run though me
when I'm alone and its just that
It's my drink, my pasta
and this original Olivetti typer tonight
which pretty much sums up my life
and I realize how short the time
we have, we are gone so quickly
I see the world go by everyday
the bus drivers, the fellas goin' to work
girls at the bus stop, the lawyers
the mothers, the fathers, the children
I sometimes feel if nobody moved
if we didn't make the day rise up
would the world even spin around
we are so ******* important
and there is too many people
with closed eyes, waiting for the day to die
so here's to the artists
the unapologetic, the mother *******
the lovers, the insane
the everyday man not afraid of the morning
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
Jeg var så lykkelig, og du var så lykkelig, og vi var så glade og lykkelige i øjeblikket. Vi var så forelskede den aften at byen bare hang som et maleri bag os. Du talte med en lav stemme, der fik højlydte grin ud ad mig, og så råbte vi et par gange at folk så smukke ud. Jeg tror at vi udgjorde et flot par der i mørket ved siden af neonlysene i søerne. Du sagde at du elskede mig fra Alaska og tilbage, og jeg svarede at du var skør. Du kastede dit hovede tilbage og smilte til hvad der lignede himlen, og så tog vi metroen fra Frederiksberg til Nørreport og løb til Marstalsgade med en rosé vi havde lånt af kiosken. Ad den smalle gade kiggede på høje bygninger og lod som om de alle var Eiffeltårnet. Vi kiggede ind ad folks små vinduer, og så de liv som jo foregår bag mure af beton. Et par som skændtes, og vi svor at det aldrig skulle være os. En far der lagde sin datter til at sove i en drømmeseng, som fik tårer frem i mine øjne. Du spurgte hvorfor jeg græd på en fredag aften, og jeg fortalte dig om min far som var forskruet og fanget i en billedramme på en villavej. Så kyssede du mig og sagde at mennesker bliver skøre af at leve i billedrammer. At de før eller siden knækker glasset, fordi at alt ilten forsvinder. Vi ville aldrig leve i en billedramme. Vi var de typer som man ville se på storskærm over Rådhuspladsen. Røde neonlys over alle menneskerne i billedrammer. Vi sov i min lejlighed på gulvet, fordi at sengen var for mennesker i billedrammer og vi var jo neonlys i forhold til de glødepærer. Og da vi vågnede, kiggede du på mig som om alt ilten var forsvundet ud ad rummet. Undskyldende over at have trukket vejret for dybt. Jeg forstod det ikke, men du fortrød mig lidt tror jeg. Du fortalte at du skulle hjem, hvor du derefter kindkyssede mig og forsvandt ud ad entreen. Du var ikke forelsket i mig trods gode kys og neonlys. Jeg var lidt ked af at jeg nåede at forelske mig i løbet af en nat.
Men hey det var jo ikke din skyld. Det er jo hvad der sker, når man drikker hvidvin på tom mave.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Been gone for a while
Lost my knack for words
The poet pipe used to be my crack
And I'd splice it with some herb.
But I lost the good vibration
That made me tic the keyboard tac
But some reason now I'm writing again
The youngin age is coming back.
I missed all my fellow typer's,
Penner's, grinners, Weirdo's
Writer's. Dont take ****** word wrong
Because trust me I'm a ****** to,
Hello out there my fellow poet
That's right, Gramps did miss you.
I've been enjoying the sun
Not trapped inside the hellopoetics cube
We all need some getaway time
To come back like a fresh flower
Renewed and refined. So for today
I inscribe my bloodlines time,
Because in time we record our being's,
Today I'm back to make fancy words
And tell you fanciful thing's.
Glad to see you, hello Mr and Mrs
Poetry, hope your doing well\
Gramps missed your typing keys.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
People change,like it was only
2 months ago you were this 'I care
About you' typer person, you were
This 'your pain,is my pain' typer
Person,you were this thermometer
Wrapped around my body,feeling
Every emotion that I had,and
You'd take them and make them
Your own.
Like 2 months ago,'you'd send me
Those goodnight and I love you'
Text,'you'd brighten up,and
You know,smile whenever my name
Popped up'
2 months ago 'you'd wipe my tears
And tell me,I'm here'
You'd give me your warm hug,and
Your gentle words would calm me down
,They'd sink deep into my heart,
That my brain would capture them
Like I'd lay down in bed,and recite them when I miss you
2 months ago 'you'd tell me,you love me,and you'd die for me'
2 months ago,you were just a stranger
That I fell inlove with.
And now all that I can think and
Say about you,is that
2 months ago,you lied,and fooled me
I fell for your cover page,never bothered to open and read the book.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
this exercise is driving me mad
this pushing of pedals and weights
the noise that my heart makes
as I challenge the clock to the end
round and round it races
where it goes nobody knows
not even this typer whose misspelled half his words
what a crazy way to write some prose
did you really have to lay this out
challenge my manhood and for what?
a latte? a pizza? what have we here?
these bragging rights will bring me to tears.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
A young writer
sat in my regular chair
inside the bookstore cafe.
He banged at the keys of his typer,
angry and without mercy.
Once he drained his coffee cup
the writer kept ******* at the rim
for a few remaining drops.
After staring blankly at the wall
for several minutes, the writer packed up
his supplies into a ratty backpack,
and walked out of the joint.
Finally, I figured, my chair had enough
of the games. It felt my presence
nearby and thus decided
we had sins to paint.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
Alle jeg kan se -
vil jeg ikke være.
Ikke én.
Alle typer, alle måder, alle alt.
Nej.
Og så sker det igen -
tænker for meget,
spekulerer.
Overvejer, opvejer, sammenligner.
Ingen er noget, men alle er alt.
Og hvad så?
Hvilket skridt tager man så,
hvor går man hen og mener noget.
Svært at distrahere fra det,
man synes er irriterende.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
I am a lover
not a fighter
a writer
but not a typer
although I type what I write
on occasion
and I fight what I love
almost all the time
if opposites attract
then love is just
one big beautiful contradiction
a clashing of ideals
and I fight for what I love
on occasion
sorry but its like i said
I've never been much of a fighter
but I do fight
every single day
to find a love worth fighting for
and to type something
worth writing about
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
...from behind the counter,
she smiled at me in a deeper way.
Her eyes told stories
about ecstasy and the prison
of family life.
So, I went back to the table,
drank the coffee,
and I tried to exorcise
the temptations
through words.
The typer has always been
my most loyal lover.
–Ron Gavalik
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 8:54 PM UTC
Me and the typer
we fight the world
with vicious fury
We shake mountains
Entire lakes
of tears ripple
as we live
our truth
as men
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 4:09 PM UTC
all he had were his words
so long after being confined in solitude
words became an outside world
whiskey was his jailer
loss of imagination was inevitable
for a sojourner he stumbled upon the isle of belle
the nights become so cool for summer whenever he listens to the soft piano piece coming from the feminine windows
stars began to make meaning
pictures began to paint
words pour from the clicking typer
soon enough whiskey could no longer hold bounds
he found freedom
freedom by magic
by the magic of belle isle
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 5:38 PM UTC
I opened the window just now
The metronome of the leaky bathtub
dip
dop
in the next room
Disembodied evidence
of a world outside.
I reset the margins on this old typer
The sputter of the leaky radiator
as familiar as the cars on the street
as the 6 am garbage trucks-
the cacophony of morning,
the wheel of time.
Keep your past lives.
I know nothing about
the world outside my skull
save the leaky bathtub.
But I know those trucks-
and they are older than me,
older than death,
older than the garbage they carry.
I hear them every morning
but they have never heard me.
Tell Shiva to stop dancing.
I'm trying to get some rest.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
A colorless, eye-shaped smoke in the sky is my eyes,
That, instead of seeing, creates new skies,
New ground, and on it a new population.
None can be sure about my subjective realisation,
But what I see is more like a simplification
Of a horribly bad-mad world.
I myself am not sure how the colours are whirled;
The colours of dream- and under-world
As clothes in a washing machine.
Myself is supposed to whirl inside that machine,
Among the instinctive desires and unclean,
Inherited demands.
While my true existence that no one understands
Is beyond those dark-coloured commands,
Just dwelling for observation.
Oct 6, 2019
Oct 6, 2019 at 2:32 PM UTC
Ik heb wat testjes afgenomen,
wilde bepalen welke dromen
mij het beste klaar kunnen stomen
voor een leven in de bomen.
Ik stem, studeer en ben het bos
verloren, staar en veer op
van het bed, wens terug los
te zijn, zoek vrijheid en een job.
Ik, wie ben, ik, boe, wie ben ik, moe.
Wie ik ben, is wat ik doe,
niet minder, meer, niet zeer,
toch op zoek. Want wat was nu ook weer
de clue?
Ach juist, ik was op zoek,
naar wie mij kan definiëren.
Ik heb een onuitstaanbare nood
aan vastleggen wie ik ben,
het is geen aanrader, 'k zou het niet
proberen.
Ik wil vertrouwbaar zijn, betrouw
me gauw en ik zal horen,
ik ben als luisteraar geboren.
Ook lief en accepterend,
de armzaligen verwerend,
doch lachend uit, oordelend,
liefst de taken verdelend.
Dat ben ik, Daan, de ambassadeur
van buzz, plezier en lachen
bezorgen aan de cohorte
is mijn favoriete forte.
Zeg ik allemaal zelf, rapportage
is onbetrouwbaar onderzoek,
ik blijf blijkbaar blij mijzelf verschuldigd
te zeggen wie ik ben
en is dat een probleem?
't Is dat ik vanonder zoek.
Voor mij een beetje maar van bovenaf is
dat allemaal oke.
Vanaf morgen zeg ik nee
wil ik minderen
die letters zinderen na
en daarom zeg ik ja
wanneer ik liever
afwijs.
Het is een zwakte als
pas gelakte nagels
later wordt het mooi,
voor nu is het een zooi
tot het droogt
en het poogt
alles te
verbeteren.
Dat ben, was, word ik later
een zeveraar een prater
een typer, een tikker,
getikt, jouw type, cherry picker.
Ik eet de kersen op jouw taart
wanneer je moederdag verjaart
eet de olie van jouw dom
de spookjes uit jouw kom
Ik ben veel en ook een vraat
ik schrok zelfs terwijl ik praat
tijdens de film
god wat zou ik mezelf
ambetant vinden
als ik mezelf niet was
Daarom kan ik niet om met mensen die niet anders zijn,
ik zou ze verwensen maar dat is niet mijn
manier van werken
ik tolereer ze, laat liefst niet teveel merken
van mijn afgrijzen, afschuwelijk plezier
als ik zie *** pijnlijk op een kier
de deur staat
naar vergetelheid.
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 8:21 PM UTC
They tell me there is a storm
way out in the East, NYC! you devil
and EVERYBODY knows it. Lord!
Nobody talks about the storm
I've been feeding since youth
except the psychiatrist who asked
the questions I forgot I had answers to
has it been that long?
I know I'm getting older,
but where are the memories placed
what is the residual of it all?
she asked and asked and I forgot
what I tried to remember
I still remembered what
I once tried to forget, you see
and not all I can see, baby
is the argument from this morning
my loyal apartment #7, I call home
maybe the clothes in the closet
the music I'm currently listening to
Mr. Nick Waterhouse if you ever have a chance
My job, my suits, my whiskey, the typer
my curious young boy, most of all,
is the certain reflection of where
we must be join' and that is the truth
and the ******* plants,
you gotta water the ******* plants, man
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
As a typer of what might be
Poetry
I am a football manager
With WORDS as my players.
Words in a Deep W Formation –
Total free verse
Hopefully forming a diamond.
No buses parked here
As my words go winging
Down the page.
Not quite five three two
But maybe the odd Haiku
In syllables of five seven five –
For there are far more than eleven syllables
In Poetry.
All writers are the same:
Our words combining
To make meaning,
Passing our visions
Views and feelings
For a crowd of readers
All being well.
Words to be chanted
By crowds enchanted –
Songs for a stadium
That is our united mind.
Paul Butters
© PB 16\8\2020.
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 5:42 AM UTC