BLUE COLLAR HOLIDAY
Bob Dylan I'd screw the young Dylan in a headdress between flayed columns & evergreens Alphabatize lesions. Swelling the meticulous, if tormented, transcription of a head But I've only been ahead so I guess trellised behind bean futures & nuclear fallout. London stoned. He's much about Interstices, different versions of haircut The casting down as darling: So "the blood just ran out" and he was left "scared again" With brackish nausea on the threshold of a Bored Game. Swelling with illustrations of people walking off Shattered teens on facet planes. Blood On The Tracks scored lightly. I said, I break for strophes & isotopes. Dylan remains. Skeletal in studio light. Pan to face & dissolve "Are you sure there is an audience? I won't go on if there's no audience..." "Everywhere I turn, arms burst their darks!"