Water for a memory

There she sat on a rounded key,
the typewriter
gasping for air, paper dust having
filled its lungs,
the ribbon thirsting for words, a 
key crawling
through space in search of white
paper…
she, in her head, replicating every
letter typed,
gray hair’s footsteps walking through
the memory 
of a younger person; she wraps 
herself in 
a blanket of self-contentment,
falling 
deeper into an impression of
the past.

 

Copyright © 04/08/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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a serviceable villain

he jammed his roscoe in ‘da shop-keeper’s 
button
 
sweat ran down his face like morgue 
cockroaches; fumbled for ‘da
backdoor;
 
‘da silent alarm had been sounded
 
irish flat foot’s beat hounded,
 
but ‘da flim-flammer jumped in his flivver and faded;
deception called ‘da c.o.p. a dumb mick
 
back at ‘da whore house, ma barker laid it on thick,
“ya dumb mug, get your mitts off ‘da marbles 
before i stuff that mudpipe down your 
effing mush;” 
 
“and tell your two bit moll to hand over ‘da mazuma!”
“werd on ‘da street is you poured a slug into that
 
shop-keeper
 
but a shamus shoved him ‘da shiv,
spilled his intestines; now making
like ‘da red sauce and ‘da 
spaghet;” 
 
“and now you’re making like 
a picture!”  
 
“so, you’re ‘gonna 
have to go climb up your thumb,
asshole!”
 
“here, put on these threads, i did a gooseberry lay;”
 
“don’t want you looking hinky;” “shut ‘da eff up 
everyone, 
 
here
 
comes ‘da house dick!”  
 
“gonna stick you in a’nutter
creep joint, no one will 
look for ‘ya there!”
 
“ma, why don’t we just get a good lip?” “no one argues
with ‘da high pillow, so get going!”  
 
“but, i’m a serviceable villain!”  
 
“‘ya know I need to get in-between ‘da 
pins!”
 
“foget it, we ain’t taking no more of your orphan paper!”
 
 all of this was being ranked by an 
undercover c.o.p. in drag
 
was gettin’ ready to tighten ‘da screws; told them all to,
“tip their mitts and grab air” 
 
“why ‘ya dirty copper!”  
 
guns were drawn like a cheap cartoon
everyone started squirting chicago
typewriter lead.
 
when ‘da shootin’ was over, ma barker, 
‘da serviceable villain, and his moll 
were all being fitted for a 
kimono wooden
 
they had all been zotzed; dialed a wrong number; caught it
in ‘da pump and that’s ‘da crop! 
 
 
Copyright © 04/28/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry® 
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