its drawing me in
and i’m there

to write something that IT thought of first
something that i never breathed
i sat down and rested my bloody, nail-bitten hands
upon its smooth, clean exterior,
violating all of its letters, raping the
holy scripture of the alpabet
and give up all free will to
its evil demise of my very
soul.

they’re strange things, these poems
the one’s the typewriter is
storing inside of its belly, in the fine ribbons
of red and black ink

it keeps going, my mind absolutely-
blank from its poison-
forget about thinking
the poets have all died off

now- we simply scar the paper
we’re turning cheap thrills
with fierce blows to each letter
each word, each sentence

unholy devastation, it beckons-
like a godawful ringing in my ear
pressed close like a death shroud
with claw marks showing through
letting the words scar the blank, white canvas

to the final click ‘clacking…sha la bing
the typewriter has mastered,
the ultimate art,
of puppeteering.