Monday, May 24, 2021

Bob Dylan at 80

 Recollected Items from the Desktop

"The hysterical bride in the penny-arcade" —

The flicker and swagger of all those who carol three months. Gaze now, duty-queen, your dirty hair has a sheen. And wiggle-wiggle, who's the coconut-queen? Wiggle-wiggle now your hair has a sheen.... I'd lose you dear lady, black rider, black rider. The wind began to howl. 'Twas a murder most foul. Blowin' through the letters that we wrote. Paint my masterpiece. Hattie Carroll. The emptiness of seams. I don't give a damn about your dreams. All the ring-dancin' and all the Christmas carols on all the Christmas Eves. Upon your big brass bed. Ain't talkin'. This is the story of the Hurricane. 

He's been ringing us for decades and it takes a soft touch, to allow hard escape with a garden grows so much.

Hard plates and a jackal-tooth scrapes along, signs that okay but fossilize its tongue.

Keep it for winnings all along the river, cold rain can give you a shiver; I differ —

I think jackal-tongue goes for far more online, shifted with mud-pie'd lace and brujeria-signs.

De-beg to starch this when you start this with Irish, Yeats and his gyres await,

And fall and crash through the eyelash, the billy-goat's eyelash, your separate pupil dilates.

You're Bob midst the trees of sharp fantasy and arise out the iris to tell this,

Come fresh from the core with intel meant more than Operations that may've been dubbed "Elvis."

Hibbing could've meant more beyond traceable lore but what in all Christ would that look like?

The seasons they change with semen out of their range and move far beyond caric'tured book-kike.

Zimmerman stares beyond sashes and fairness, awareness toward circus-fairs ALRIGHT and the glib.

Eighty odd birthdays isn't a lie, he was alive 'fore you thought of coffins, you thought those ceremonies, you reconciled thought with the crib...


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