The Dream Machine

The fame machines He found his old type-writer in the basement took it up, tried to clean the typeface On a day he felt like a writer dreaming of fame hammering out a novel in a cloud of cigarette smoke and whisky at his side The aber was, he didn’t smoke and had no tolerance for whisky; when he did drink, he always ended up drinking the whole bottle relaying on his friends in the A. A to come and take him to a meeting. He recently bought a computer, a big, black thing he hardly knew how to handle, nevertheless, it was going to make him instantly famous No words came In the evening, nervous about drinking too much coffee he wrote a poem “the red necktie.”