I'm going to do this thing called Poem of the Week (#POW?) every Tuesday because I'm a huge nerd and I would rather some of my unpublished works didn't feel left out in a lonely folder in some forsaken corner of my desktop. POEMS HAVE FEELINGS TOO. And without further ado...
It portrays words in a naked way, as if their meanings stand for themselves
and no complicated font has to compensate
it is safe
and safety sells.
It is not afraid to tell us what it thinks we don’t know,
What it knows we don’t know.
A phrase hanging alone, unaccompanied by the carefully-crafted marketing scheme of a font
Will wet no tongue
Words, edges carved to perfection
Your favourite cut of roast beef
Covered in mom’s gravy
Toast, fireplace, smells of grandma when she was here
Baby Lisa is on the carpet, sprawled
Cranium fixated on the words before her
“pupp-y” she mutters,
The Helvetica saturating her brain
Forever imprinted on her cortex
She will grow up to be a slave to the typeface
Just like us all, drones, we want to go home
And read books that make us feel like everything will be okay
No intimidating hues please, no contrived cursive
I would like to thank you, 1957
You were a good year of crap cutting
And rational idea forming
And making us all come together through font
Even the prepubescent Asian girls look good with
American Apparel splayed conveniently across their nipples
A sarcastic salute to the bureaucratic entrepreneurs
That control them,
A separation between Slut and State
I cannot hate you, Helvetica,
The aunt who brings me pancakes and
Looks just like me but is not afraid to punish.
Vulnerable, we are friends forever through typography.