beat .. .

beat, plageurism while writing a sonnet

Sometimes I think I came too late to writing
I should have come first of all
to listen is to spell
to see to speak
to tell all, a rat-fink
when the amber sun sinks in the pan
and the warm good smell of bacon cooking
phenols of clear scotch whiskey
sparkle up your nose
the aurora of a pretty lady
whose smile lifts your Dantė thoughts
of judgement, death and hell
pro-creation is the reason
a message in a bottle
a signature in sand
and all those damn fine cliches
I learned as a kid
with grandparents
a Kerouac without a road
they grew cabbage and leek
and profound mundanity
no tin roof except the jangling stars
Orion, Jupiter and the bats flying
I felt the rain on my face, cold wind in my eyes

I came too late to writing
Whitman had already been and Keates and Kelly
and every name becomes a name-drop
a dead phoenix rotting
a minotaur without a head
crumpled up da Vinci drawings
lost under the bed
I once bought a Djembe
from an African in Italy
at a market in a northern town
he talked while he ate
spat bread crumbs in my face
his sweated brow was full of animus
richness of history, character
I considered him entirely great
we haggled
I paid him 20 euros for his trouble
I bought my African drum home
should I leave it by your gate?

©edenbraytoday11.09.2023