Typed Music


I suppose these are just little pieces of me, wrapped up in words.

The forgotten melodies of my mind.


70. Dick Wittington

In my town
     The streets are paved
          With gold
               Because the rain
             Runs an infinitely unfinished race
         And the streets
    Are run thick with sky
        That swills above blocked drains
             And the street lamps
                Take a bathe in the puddles
                   And their lights
                        Unravel and swim
                      And sometimes
                   The wind gusts through
               And lacerates the
            Rivers of hoarded treasure
        So that our good fortune
            Is molten and fickle
              But somehow viscous
                   And the promises
                         Of our childhood
                             Wrinkle like
                                Aging skin


In my town
        The streets are paved

           With gold
               And so are the

               Broken pieces
              Of their beer


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