I owe poems its late and I decided to start having a go on the 30s type writer I have in the house because I have got fed up of having to hand write my poems (I was given the type writer I didn’t buy it) this is what happened
Free Typing on Type Writer.
There are many things I know I wish I did not know just how much sleep lies between me and reality that my subconscious wakes me from what little sleep I have had of late wracked by voices I thought I had forgot. I know my heavy handed typing is perfect for this 30s type writer however inaccurate I am as someone who learned to type on plastic keys with the ever present spell check I know it is too late to be hammering at these yellowed keys I know I have an inordinate fondness for analogue machines digital is too easily broken by my clumsiness there is the sense I could understand how this type writer works I remember reading those books about how light bulbs worked and being sure I could understand the machines in my surroundings as a child. I no longer understand how street lamps shine. I love the fact I cannot break this typewriter it dares me to keep hitting it harder to get the words out faster I know I have bust the keys on many computers this way. I know I write hard I type hard. I know I started this month in a poem gush. Those voices found me and took my poems. I know the ring of this type writer can drown them out. I know that this is not a good poem. I know I threaded the paper wrong curtailed my lines, accidentally centre aligned this poem. I know I am not sure how I will rethread the ink tape when this runs out. I know I will google it or wait for my mother to visit I was never allowed near her type writers she needed them for work and writing. I know I have only started typing on here because my printer won’t talk to my lap top I know I will get better at this I know hammering and the focus on accuracy will make me write better. I know my neighbours are probably wondering what the racket it.