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 every Tuesday because I'm a huge nerd and I would rather some of my unpublished works didn't feel left out in a lonely folder in some forsaken corner of my desktop.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.