the kitchen sonnet

so you want me
to read you some of my poems
in this dirty kitchen
filled the to ceiling with the cigarette smoke

I will stand in the middle
like a wingless angel of disorder
surrounded by the grey cloud
speared by the sharp sunlight beams

I will not be drunk but I will not be sober
blunt and dry, like a leaf in the late last October
I will read you my poems
while you’ll be scraping this cast iron pot

soon night will kiss day goodnight
you’ll finish scraping the pot
I will be totally drunk
no more poetry, only compote

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