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!"