"typewritten" poems
Sometimes, my skull fills with water
And I forget what we are
We are not.
We
Typewritten letters punch holes inside my mind
Beams of light sifting through sand.
Or rainshowers
impregnating truth
where there is none
My physical realisation
wants for nothing.
Nothing
in us carries the weight
of our waters
like the ebb and flow
of life’s tide.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 11:36 AM UTC
it's kind of like antharax; vanity;
it's in the air in your eyes in your lungs in your walls
someone else put it there
you're breathing it in and you're not even aware
it's killing you, you know
and the only reason you're reading this now
is because something drew you in.
maybe it's because this is typewritten
...
hell knows if it were in my handwriting
you wouldn't have gotten past the third letter
but back to the killing
back to the dying
the vanity that someone has put in the air and is filling your lungs,
it's curable.
all you have to do is realize
;
this poem is not about you.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 11:29 PM UTC
i might have become
h o l l o w
as the bottles i drank
numb
as my cold fingers
e m p t y
as the inbox on my phone
disoriented
as how this poem is typewritten
how much more naiveté
do i have to go through
in order to realize
because i know im hurting
yet i dont know how to explain the pain
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
No, I was torn naked and bleeding from the mouth of a death star
and woke to find mountains laid bare by the sea.
In the shallows of blood baths and craters, where the crushers of garlic and the harlots all meet
and the stiflers of dreams, dream on (right up my street)
that's where you'll find me.
In the 'Benbow' with pirates and pieces of eight and with cords tied to timepieces
(don't want to be late)
and the show starts at nine
when after drinking two bottles of cheap German wine
Salome appears with a head in her lap
we clap
because that's what we do.
(Lost innocents are few and we ain't none of all that)
But the ship sailed at four carrying whalebones to Spain
to tighten the corsets
for those Senoritas
who put me to such shame.
What's in a name that it's spat on the floor
by crimson clad virgins
who won't leave the doorways of bodegas
and Degas paints on.
A shanty
a song and the night carries me along on a wave of cheap scent
where oft' I have spent a weeks earnings on unsatisfied
yearnings.
In the end someone will send me a typewritten note or a telegram
to let me know just who and what I am
until then
in the 'Benbow' 'til ten and the crows crow at midnight when the lights all go out.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
I wish
To look at the waves of old memories
(Are they even mine?)
of brushing rough fingers against
misty hands―salty like sea foam
(Are they even mine?)
Or typewritten words
(Are they even mine?)
because I simply despise my own mark of pen
because ink stains this day
will never be as fascinating
as the way the sea makes your sky-speckled shirt
as dark and as deep as it is
forming waves against your stomach
Stop,
Ask myself
(Are they even mine?)
And sigh,
not heavily
nor curse myself,
with the words
I so carelessly throw around
like this
like the sea of letters
pulling me away now,
but whisper,
"That was beautiful."
(Were they even mine?)
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
am I even supposed to be in love you? your thick horn-rimmed frames and curly hair never cease to leave my brain and remains engrained in my thoughts from when I first wake up, to bus rides on my way to school, coffee in the foggy afternoons, and when I lie awake at night staring at the artificial stars spread out on my ceiling. I miss you so much and I am not sure why we had never spoken before you moved but maybe it was fate that led me to finding you through the internet and let us become lovers in such a modern age. it’s easier now with our computers and iPhones yet I know that we both still crave romantic letters in swirly handwriting or ten paged typewritten letters from across the country in the back seat of a bright mustard, gypsy caravan with a peace sign engraved onto the license plate. I wish you could just easily come back instead of having to wait for opportunities to visit during school breaks, since we are constantly in town when the other is not. do you still write passages about your childhood memories and about “love” because they were equally as beautiful if not equally true. what are you thinking about when you are passing through the golden gate bridge as the window is halfway open and a vampire weekend song echoes through the car, mixing in with the sounds of the sea? do you still hold your breath in the old rainbow tunnel we used to make wishes in? or do you not even bother to try. I hope we can make things work since this love is anything but unrequited, and I am craving your freckles more than anything in the world. no, maybe even more than anything in the universe. I am going nowhere soon so come back whenever you would like before time runs out and we head our separate ways. please, for your name is starting to appear in my notebook too many times and I am madly in love with the idea of being with you, even if for only one day.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
What came first, me or
the harmony words?
sometimes I wonder
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
Poetry is beautiful or so they say
It's just ink - filled paper
Or typewritten chatter
Much to my dismay
You see, I think I now know what is true
Baby, word after word
No matter how absurd
Could be beautiful if made for you
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 8:59 AM UTC
I live to dream
Up here where the writers can share their time in imagined peace,
Duly thought out greatnesses, and the squeezing in
and about
and around
in rampantly quiet fondness, sometimes (often) of one another.
Spending infinities, tireless hours, slaving in their castles in the sky,
-composing
Constructing life from billions and trillions of words
that happen on small forms of paper that slip and toss themselves like dumb flounders,
Sometimes to the ground,
Spiraling slowly to their deaths,
15,000,000 feet below.
…
The abused dreamlings are meant like rain to slick and refresh the ancient, strained making of
a typewritten play,
teaming with the brilliance of enamoring flytraps, teething, eager to consume you and make you seed,
a story
continuing from now and forever,
as it were,
crushed up into passing word,
gyrating on the systems of (wr)etched meaning,
crafted in the hot,
rusty, moaning gears that power such
our upward descent into a dense and bitter (sweet) Sky.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 1:52 AM UTC
My writing will never be nice.
It will never have rhyme or reason or hold iambic pentameter.
It is not typewritten on aged paper bought from a small bookstore, carried home hurriedly under a black coat in a downpour.
My experiences are not universal,
on the contrary,
they are painfully singular stories.
My writing will never be featured in a book,
or on the front page of a trusted source,
it will be buried away in a desk,
dormant with the other scraps of musings once cherished.
I am not one like Keats, Byron, Frost, Dickinson, or Poe,
I, for all intents and purposes, am a fawn lost in the forest,
admiring the sights and sounds around me,
listening to those wise ones who can describe them in such perfect tone.
It would be fair to say that I am not even a poet,
I am simply a brain that thinks,
A body that moves,
And a soul that feels that very special something.
Nov 10, 2020
Nov 10, 2020 at 10:29 PM UTC