Monday, June 30, 2008

I broke my ink pen, while listening to The Cure, while shifting positions on my bed, while writing this poem. I didn't like the song, which made me believe that I didn't like The Cure all the much to begin with. Maybe just a couple of their old songs. I liked Love Song a lot. All in all, they were no Duran Duran. Someone is bound to agree, most are ready and willing to disagree, though. Skip to the next song.

As I shifted from lying to sitting, I had my pen between my right---no my left, thumb, index, and middle finger. I can't write while lying---lying down, I mean. I lie, fib, and bullshit all the time when I write. But I sit up to increase my awareness and so The Cure doesn't put me to sleep.

I am a little disappointed about the pen. It was a damn fine pen with silver in all the right places. My thumb, index, and middle finger broke it in half. Not quite. . . it kinda just popped open. I can twist it back, but it won't stay. This might as well be Purgatory with the way I'm twisting this thing. My expectations are soaring. Click.

If I hold it together, quite literally, hold it together. . .
It won't fall apart, quite literally, fall apart.
It's a mantra that The Cure could have sang about.
Duran Duran could done a better job.

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