Typewriter logic

these grumpy restrained & perfectly trained
nicotine-stained blue fingers
have just gained access
to, fro and beyond
my professional
typewriter's
cunt vortex

telepathically offered her magma
carefully word-constructed
grown into her
blown into her
painfully stacked
gathered under broken
& wrongly marked
letters

must exterminate her:
she keeps rejectingly
offering me
collages of
same old black stuff on white meat
collages that, as she claims
extend my ego
nail my soul to a PURPOSE
which, as she claims
is the all-fruit of her typewriting
artkunst:
for a magical fact
she takes me real fast

I've become badly addicted:
can't cope w/
typewriter's
thick brown coce-like juices
anymore:
she found my
mainline
she'll use me as she sees
fitflirt
getting rid of her
would be now all-impossible:

typewriters are bad for your health
and pump up enormously
the volume
of your death risk
factor...