The Tapping Of The Keys

In the dream
all our friends are crammed
in our sweaty, thumping apartment.
It’s my birthday.  Pointlessly
uncontrollably, vitriol
breaks out of my mouth
gunning for her.

The primates whoop and wheeze
warping a thoughtless act
into a gang rape.
Their hideous laughter, drowning
her in a cacophony of noise.
It twists into a perverse
sanity-crushing scream
as her soul diminishes.

I hear her tapping at the keys, empty
since the light bled out of her eyes.
Invisible, voiceless, haunted.
I am alone.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.