The Evil Typewriter

THAT EVIL TYPEWRITER AGAIN

It is time to peel your mind away from your problems and give it an education in the art of patience and understanding before it becomes lost in its own dictates and protrudes into places you don’t want it to go, said the evil typewriter into my mind.

I was but a proud song on the radio of the love death, and always sang in tune to whatever was going on; but suddenly I found myself drowning, with no more time for the usual things except for a song that was playing over and over in my head, a song that I was making as it came along to be interpreted: most urgent, you must begin to understand things; and when you have understood enough you can come around to the idea that we have your mind in a pickle jar awaiting collection.

I just knew that this was coming from that evil typewriter again; and so I ran the other way right into its jaws and became nothing really but a minced pie in the overload.
Now, I don’t know what love is most of the time, at least, until after it has left; but I’m perfectly willing to surrender myself to it again, if it comes a calling, I thought.
Ah, so you think you know what love is, do you?
Yes, it’s a pain that breaks my heart over and over again.
Can you spell that backwards?
Not on my own usually.
Then listen to this if you must: we are all lost and broken in our sighs, and sail in our tears towards the other side to be blaggards in our doom, or busmen shifting in the third eye establishment of all things dear.
Well I’m sure I don’t know which is which really, anymore, so I’ll take a pass on that.
Do we echo each other as we speak each other’s thoughts?

I was too much bruised to answer this in my lifelong yearning to be saved, and so had to become the samurai and cut everything into shreds of all I believed in to never be saved.
As we entered the next dream it was suggested that we please look to the right to see the emperor’s passing in his swilling nightly, said that evil typewriter again, and then played the drums into my dreams.

The rage that had been building for an awful long time spread out like a nuclear bomb and became imbecile, said the Frenchy hiding in the usual place.
At the next crossing, the wind blew me back again until I’d learnt some lesson only it knew that was quite compelling.
Coming up against nothing I said its name: wishbone fish, and got a dime for my troubles that paid double for religion just to confuse me.
And so I danced the tango and thought nothing of it for the hurt to be true until I came to pay the price, of that god damned typewriter, giving me lessons in love with my back up against the wall.
I was a whore.
And I swigged beer down by the gallon; and drank whisky from the heart of my soul.
I was the next expected urge to the top.

Well, what could I do but go with the flow and spill out into the wire wind that was flowing.
As I urged onwards my teeth fell out and my knees grew wobbly and hurt inwards as I kneeled upon the floor to spell me my dark mind.
Gnashing away on the monster I became delirious, and as the time passed I absorbed the familiar into my war robe and looked up for ghosts to reabsorb where the wound never closes over.
Coughing away I thought about many foolish things until I became the clown of that despair that rose from the ground to open the evening moon for inspection.
I am not the machine I called out in my dread.
What a monster it said, and kissed my lips full on perfectly.
Over on the allotment the onions were growing high and the turnips weren’t doing that bad either as one and one became two, a kind of follow-over from where we’d been together for so long like some jazz radio complete.
Underneath the awning tree there were too many mice nibbling away at all the squares that were blaming the evil typewriter again.

Yes, we are the moon on the face of that too.
After the leaves were swept up there was nothing more to think of so I went to explore the road into the heart of it and ran past the old woman who discovered a part of me that she must have kept these last years into her soul to remember once in a while; so I gave her a nod in passing.
And now I really hate the damned typewriter that is making up all this and exposing me to the truth where I’m grieving in my bed and would get rid of the lot of it if only my secrets were past and I could go on to heaven over my defeat.
But I was not finished yet, oh no, I had one more idea to be made and I was going to make the most of it.
If only I could find a sponsor to give me lots of money.
When you learn to overcome the monkeys, that is when you will get lots of money, said the sponsor giving me some advice.

I looked up with a pen in my hand to write down anything I could see there, but found only the machine dancing on my name against all I could become, and far more than I could protest.
I protested anyway and was known as quite the rebel until the whisky ran out.
Click clack I heard in the background, as the evil typewriter ran on into the early hours…
But one thing follows on from another and I found myself talking big among the ruffians that grew huge in my mind, until they asked me for my name; which is when I just had to utter the words: well, I can tell you now that I am not eating road-kill, not for anything; I stand firm on that.
I said this also, out of the side of my face to my wife who’d died a long time ago but was still beside me and judging me by the movement, as was her way.
In the mist that roiled in most timely in my mining, I called out to be found and was answered by a most peculiar thing that I had no mind of previously but it had some kind of calling that echoed back to me; sort of courageous with a touch of pepper that lulls the pallet into accepting more.
And then closer to midnight than anything a rattling glass, chinking, came and went as I adjusted the shutters to keep out the dark.

As the ruffians stared at me through their dark eyes I averted my gaze and looked around me wildly for some form of escape.
I saw only the broken wings of all the death I’d ever asked for…and anyone who’s been anywhere will tell you all about that…
I took a deep breath with a little cumin powder to spice things up a bit when all of a sudden one of the ruffians threw something at me that broke a small bit of my reserve off so that I had to dance like a clown for ten minutes straight.
I am about here to disappear, and before midnight ends that is what I intend to do.
Many years later the rain had rusted right through all the defences so that I had to take up cards and run around my mind like an old Carry Grant movie talking hungry in the cross-over where there is no escape from this place, and that god damned evil typewriter.

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