Typed Music


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

The forgotten melodies of my mind.


79. The Dandruff Catcher

Not so small as to be lost

In the crêpery of un-ironed hills but

Small enough yet to be abridged

By the grizzling of winter into spring

He stands while the sky unpeels itself

Diminished, diminutive, darkened

Beneath the buoyancy-aided clouds

That are alternate grey and wasted lime

His hands like anvils, scabbarded in his gloves,

Bear a tension too great for excitement

More like anticipation

More like fear

And his tongue and his teeth make a bear trap

With which he will drain the air

Of the white that just begins to drift upon it

As though God was sharpening his pencils

Or jogging ash from his cigarette

With the same ecstatic rigidity

That holds his profile as an ironing board

Beneath the flakes

“I’m catching dandruff”

Not ash, not shavings, but dandruff

And the old woman smiles

                “Granddad’s just bending down to see us closer”

And she can’t explain him –

Her little dandruff catcher –

As he feasts the air and the dead things it contains

So she turns and rings out the tears

That are gathering between every rung of her ribcage

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