A Sonnet for a Broken Printer
How shall I dispose of thee? Let me count the ways.
I chuck you in a bag, fitted for your depth and breadth and height
And throw the bag in a corner, bitterly still exposed to sight,
Praying for the end of your Being and phantom Grace.
I loathe thee to the level of everyday’s
Most shocking hate, like a fuming Luddite.
I loathe thee freely, as I am free to loathe whatever I might.
I loathe thee purely, because, look, you’re a fucking printer
And I shouldn’t have to stick to some arbitrary poetic frame
To talk about it and curse your pathetically “futuristic” name.
I loathe thee with a hate I hate to lose,
Though no more with the effort of my huffy breath,
Will I scream at you, and instead, if God choose,
I will loathe thee better after your death.
