so of the mundane tragedies endlessly writ repeat rinse repeat repeat how awfully awful is the complaining without cessation of busted everything;
recall the the doctor’s office sign "no cure for the broken heart here"
so when I hear a Buckley sing the words of the Cohen, High Priest of Songs, I, a broken hallelujah, smile with recognition though the true cure is yet still forever being researched
patience is a patient within me, for my muses and their endless, poking aching whispers of write, write, write, right, they are the company I keep, they are the company that sweeps me up I, a broken hallelujah
they are not the desired flesh, true, that affirms confirms and denies me denying my needy frailties but for now, mine company to keep, so when we do meet and you greet me with a tell me about your previous lovers as you humanly must