My Electric Typewriter, A Poem

Hum of electricity like a mechanical breath,

Smell of rotting flowers still too viable to be thrown away.

Bouquet of wilting words, dead as they hit the page,

Corporal punishment on the keyboard.

Plan ahead for each unique, permanent strike.

What is our relationship? Who is doing the writing? What choice do we really have?

Without cut and paste I cannot rearrange, without memory I cannot reproduce.

A singular creation, to the whir and clack of creativity’s music.

Unchanged, punishing the page.

With each letter, the hardcore sound of maddening ideas in a rage.

The electric typewriter, my strange friend, spelling death. D-E-A-T-H.