POE’S FALSE STARTS

ARCHAEOLOGICAL-LITERARY  FIND OF THE DECADE

Recently found in the basement of what once was a seedy seaport tavern in Maryland, in a file marked ‘EAP–do not serve til tab paid’, were these notes. Authenticity has yet to be determined:

Feb, 1845—Memo to self; notes for poetic idea found in coat pocket. Cannot recall its creation, perhaps too indulgent to the whims of Bacchus that day.I should take a second pass at this one; I need a real scary, dramatic poem to make some sales, show that dandy Longfellow who writes the poetry around here, and get the creditors off my ass, which I sold yesterday to a drover…. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
a bunch of dreary old books I had to read, I hate ’em
Suddenly a bird, a raven, appeared, endlessly repeating a word
ad infinitum verbatim
“Oh, no more, never!” Said I, and killed and cooked and ate ‘im.

The first line resonates, keeping that. what word(s) should the raven, ( an owl instead?) repeat? … unsure about the latin

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
over a lid of knock-you-on-your-ass killer ganja I had scored.
Suddenly there came loud rapping, Tupac or Biggie, DJ samplin’
some tasty snippet of classic rock or soul they never paid for.
The new neighbors liked to party, and though it was already four
I knew it would last for hours more……

Another one of my most strange dreams; filled with impossible wonders and ridiculous notions that are portended, such as investing in railroad and steel stocks. I don’t even remember writing this bit, must have been a Two-pipeful evening. Still, the meter has promise….This ganja intrigues me…

What substance, whether grown, manufactured, or incanted under an eclipted moon had I imbibed the night I penned this?

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
the white stuff that oozes out of my nose pores if I squeeze it just so

a verse about each of our bodies’ loathsome secretions…how coarse and lowbrow…it just might get me free drinks from the louts at the taverns, if I make it odious and distasteful enough…

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
how come they are pronounced differently?
Weary should be ‘wee-ry’, or weak should be ‘wick’, I thought
These musty old books don’t have the answers, to the junkman with the lot.
I’ll box them up tonight so she won’t notice; tell her, ‘They’re lost, Lenore’.

That was stupid,not to mention disjointed and unfocused. I am too tired, perhaps a little more tincture of opium. ,….Lenore, old books, …something there, ancient books, forgotten volumes, ….what rhymes with Lenore? If that damned tapping and rapping on the chamber door would stop, I might come up with something, must be the wind, nothing more…More , Lenore,….lore…. Damn! I’ve run out of paper……

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