William Wordsworth

Wordsworth contemplates the coming of the electric typewriter.

William "The Willie" Wordsworth (7 April 1770 – 23 April 1850) was a British typist and news reporter famed for his overly romantic weekly advice column.

Infant

This page you cannot but choose to read, our fingers type the words, our bladders must empty whether against or with our will. I would like to buy a vowel, a vowel produced so slowly ever to decay. I lay asleep a diaper too full to burst, and become a living soul: While with a pacifier I am made quiet by the power of harmony, the deep power of a mobile spinning slowly, slowly we see into the life of things. Where is my dinner? Where is my dinner… I am hungry.

Travel

In San Francisco my heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky. I came among these hills, and by that I mean to make an innuendo, it is within an innuendo that we all lose sleep, and when I rectum I really did hardly touch him. After many wanderings, many years of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, and this green pastoral landscape, the thick brush were to me more dear, but for my sake, it seems a Hollywood wax is now in order.

The last time I received a waxing had to be when I was but a young lad. They took hours ritualistically ripping me into sheering pain. I alone know the horror of a bad waxing. For many years, I have roamed the countryside in search of a good practitioner. I believe Hollywood to be my best bet.

Everyone into the typing pool

Trepidation permeates this world, this prison, these four walls have become to man. To yearn for fresh air, the sun above, the feel of wet earth below my feet now chained by these machines. These hands of man are too coarse, too clumsy, too double-jointed to effectively pound these small keys that confront he who is a typist. I often ask myself and dwell on the possibilities, as one is wont to do, if of all world would allow, to imagine the grace and form that a woman’s hand could perform if allowed to an introduction to technology. Perhaps the temptation to place technology in the gentle hands that holds a suckling child is what is fair and best – a pool of raven-haired beauties to type for me.

Relationship Trauma

This bed is too much with us, you leave it late and soon, getting off, and spending we lay waste our powers, little do I see in these divorce papers that is mine. The dreary intercourse of our daily lives, that is the reason for separation?? I mean, I know twenty minutes is not very long or anything but don't you think dreary is a little harsh? I hear the sad music of humanity, please turn it down. Please, no really I’m trying read these papers, turn that crap down!!!

Cows

Wandering lonely as a cow through yonder fields of short fat dwarfs, from whernst came thy splendid hole and yellow shining dafodil. Alas then thyst deepest of eyes did spot, a pretty girl twas rather hot, over whernst my eyes did slowly wander, up and down then over and under, then she glared and caught my sight, hurried over, what a fright, and with a slap she set me right, alas i knew twas in the shite. Yet my endeavors did not end there, it was a bed i wished to share, i followed her scent straight up the path, i quickly followed did not look back, and whernst the top did i did get, ah twas thy girl whom i had met, met just so and so before thy comfort gained as i was sure. She cleared her throuat and said with glee, ill make you shout ill make you flee, as you cannot write a poem, and keep it elegantly flowing, if i say orange... Alas i knew the time was up, i ran with a scuttle and a jump, back to my house from whernst i came, and into bed did i did lay, to quietly ponder on a rhyme for thyst word of orange.

Gossip

There is no sword, no saber nor snakes bite that is sharper than a female’s tongue when wielded by a woman fueled full of scorn and alit by petty jealousies, of whispers and murmurings of ennui. The cut is deep, the poison effective, the blood pours from the mouth of folly. Weeping is but a respite in spite of itself – the claws, the mayhem – the helpless that must die a martyr’s death because the match is struck and thus the fuse is lit. Verily, Rose Sharon is gunning for me.

Immoral hunger

With my hands shaking, I carefully peel back and away the drape that separates my rancid desires – those unspeakable needs that civilized people only dare talk about in hushed tones – from the tender young beings that stir my depraved soul. As the cloth slowly parts, my eyes adjust to the darkened room where the infants lay tender, unmolested by others and awaiting my savage unstopable hunger. Try as I might, I am helpless! Curse this need, this aching, this longing! What I have taken from those who had hoped to see them grow to maturity, unspoiled – destroy this man that I can no longer look at in the mirror? And yet my mouth waters at the very sight of it – a lamb lays naked before me, its loins and shanks, braised to perfection awaits my feted mouth, slathered in mint jelly. And what is this? Veal! And oh look! Baby carrots, lightly basted in sweet crème butter! Little ears of corn! And be still my foolish heart: Sweet Tender Young Spring Peas! Damn it all, damn it all – Mammy, bring me seconds!

Dessert

Oh, but for the sweetness of a spoonful, a delectable morsel, a tender tidbit, only to have it snatched away by the grim wretches of Jenny Craig, damn them, damn them all, though the hellfires of eternity are too good for them. Yea, for one day I shall have my revenge, tearing, ripping, clawing my way through the darkness, in the fond belief that love may be only a tiramisu away, a mere bon bon of fleeting moments, lifting me up, up, up from the depths, into the lightness of a chocolate mousse, perhaps even in the shape of a moose. Yum.

Old Man

I live by admiration love and hope, you live off the alimony payments your bloodsucking lawyer comes round my house every week to collect. Thanks to the syrup these pancakes will not be dry, thanks to the butter my cholesterol will not be low, low, low. Time collects in the bags below these old eyes, the drop of… wait, what was I talking about again?

Ask Willie

• Not harsh nor grating should the toilet paper be, though of ample power to cause friction the wipe that wipes the poo from the bum our daily lives.

• There is one great society alone on earth: the noble living rich, and the noble poor dead.

• Wine, spaghetti sauce, and blood, all can be resolved with white vinegar and a hot towel bathed in celestial light. The glory of a stain cleansed and the freshness of a dream.

• The index today is ten, and later as the clouds gather round the setting sun, you'll say 'another day of golf is done'.

• Masculinity through the savy of my sword, shall command thou Mario to defeat thee evil Tryrant Bowser, for if he fails, takeeth with him thee horseman of apocolapyse, thy Bob Hoskins.