hallaig
12-05-2012, 12:19 PM
E verything h
appens for a reason.
Found in the computer suite,
among the blinking wall of windows,
a square of paper marked by a dodgy
typewriter. We turn it over in our palms
like runes. I explain it is a message
from another world by a machine
long gone to landfill, with its e detached
and h faint and hovering like a comedy ghost.
It is an anachronism, a surface not printed,
but embossed by an act of physicality,
a push on levers, like a memory of the factory age,
of how it felt to take aim and smack a page with words,
and sometimes miss. They shake their heads, turn,
and their sentences emerge from clouds again,
fully formed and formatted; not indented,
but tapped on glass like rain.
appens for a reason.
Found in the computer suite,
among the blinking wall of windows,
a square of paper marked by a dodgy
typewriter. We turn it over in our palms
like runes. I explain it is a message
from another world by a machine
long gone to landfill, with its e detached
and h faint and hovering like a comedy ghost.
It is an anachronism, a surface not printed,
but embossed by an act of physicality,
a push on levers, like a memory of the factory age,
of how it felt to take aim and smack a page with words,
and sometimes miss. They shake their heads, turn,
and their sentences emerge from clouds again,
fully formed and formatted; not indented,
but tapped on glass like rain.