Bob Dylan's Excremerit

"You can't go through life without reading some kind of book."
  - Bob Dylan, Rolling Stone Magazine, 2012

God I heard you
 your lousy voice
I knew it was you
just like the voice
dronin' in my mind
comin' outa amplifiers
jukeboxes, cafeterias,
1966
a young voice
an old voice
a ghost rider with his
 pen dipped in poison
the poisoned barb of bath.
it got accommodated
by society
and slowly compromised
and I don't care
if it can be said more
flowery than that.
it is what it is.

now the tide
has gone down
we pick over debris
who said what
Lennon, McCartney
Dylan, Morrison,
Joplin, Pound -
the tide it turns out
rising again
reanimating matter
rearranging it
carting it away
transfiguring a new idol
 to civilisation

you blew away
your mind
blowing in the wind
rainy day women
it slipped away
between 66-68
that kid died
a new guy grew
an turned into you
 Hendrix and the others
couldn't pull that stunt
 to walk again
upon the earth
like Judas
unmascara-d
playd fuckin' loud
for one more
cup of coffee
and a thousand telephones that don't ring

like an old
Italian poet
with Spanish boots
a Petrarch or Baudelaire
his early intrigues and instruments
golds and spices
lifted
from the 13th century
into 1963
like a spider sewing
the spiral outward
from the central spokes
of a wagon wheel
a cowboy hat
spinning in the dust

gathered up
45s, spinning vinyl
scratched folk tunes
the Remixer, the Artist
the Singer of Songs
the Post Poet Incarnate
that's who we made you
but not who you are
the voice inside
a generation's mind
truth speaks
in a drawl and it's not You
I know
it's not You

mirror poem

carrier signal

/c!ick

   as
   this  logos
   only goes one way
   thru the diode of the brain

   the mechanics of an unbending mind -- to become

   time fouled shoals of thought
   pockmarked excreta to be
   picked apart
   at sea

beside   

a warm bum   

on a black obelisk   

the coursing round of seaweed and dry planks - undone   

back on the beach   

oill's well in   

N.S.W.   

   it
   init.
   like a plane
   or an antenna on a

   pilot in the cockpit looks at his watch - 11 o'clock

   plane locked into a
   deep descent
   down
   to

init   

as a stylus   

plucks a vinyl   

groove wave reanimate   

the song which must be heard once more   

a long dead sigh   

at the end   

biting   

dust   

   hat
   t-woo
   a watermark
   left on the high

   tar stained planks and curlicue shells grasping - only

   tide stretched planks
   water board a
   walk of
   evil

hit   

it so   

he makes   

a noise like that   

the low swivel squeal of a narwhal - again   

sidling through oceans'   

salt heavy   

waves   

art   

   the
   gusty sea
   the gutsy sea
   overcurling & uncoiling

   girt by purple hued foam fingers - flotsam

   articulate and inarticulate
   taxa are by definition
   orders

so   

also the   

rubber mould   

of a comforting glove   

the inside and outside are the same - pain   

becomes pleasure but   

it is defined   

the same   

   the sun
   also..

/c!lick


CONTACT WAS LOST WITH THE PILOT FOLLOWING AN ELECTRICAL MALFUNCTION IN THE ONBOARD COMMUNICATIONS...THREE HOLES WERE FOUND DRILLED IN THE FUSELAGE...SUGGESTS THE PLANE CRASHED INTO THE SEA NEAR BYRON BAY AT APPROXIMATELY 11.20AM... A SMALL OIL SLICK WAS OBSERVED IN THE REGION... IT IS BELIEVED THE PILOT WAS LOW ON OXYGEN... B.P.125/96 H.R 160.. ANALYSIS OF THE BLACK BOX RECORDING INDICATES THE DECEASED WAS SINGING AT TIME OF DEATH...

lophophore

Overwhelmingly numb sensation kuje soeekwakjubg tjroug wire frame, needles
Sparks falling out of broken ceilings
Abrupt displacia
Lost sense of poetry
Gluemoan home
Strange itches
loudness
inarticulata
argon gorgon
lophophore
a little
bivalve
in myonia

the idea
encapsulated
in a mussel shell
is the ideal Form:
'i am safe inside' with the whole  macabre of  emotion
            realised in evolution

i wonder wherelse it surfaces
maybe in some rimpool at
the end of the surf shop -- roman scutum -- la almeja pequena -- or a pippa somewhere..

poem found in a bin

poetry happens most in the absence of itself

if the thought intrudes-
"i am a poet" or
"i am writing a poem"
then the work is destroyed

poets destroy more poems than they create

poets pollute as they create

wake up poets!

yours is old news!

take out the cord of meaning
from your mess of ink

post it online
freed of matter

it walks..
it talks..

the temple of icthus

in a cold dilema
i churn
my teeth clatter
 my thoughts burn

whosoever printed this
 excrescence
has form

but her subtle temper
 must recognise all
who float there

kerosene windows
stained on her
vast
 interior intimate

a piscean choir
(in the dark)
 voicing a passion

it is rising from the deep
archaen roots
of Parnassus

free the tongue

the poet's tongue
must be free
from complicity
 in anti-liberty

no sooner set up
words to cure the bull
by inventing a
 copy writing tool

than sunk the idea
like a raving fool
on a new patent copyright
 ducking stool

now each page
with a little 'c'
marks the bards' descent
 to bastardry

why wonder why?

when we skewer the butterfly
 the butterfly
don't fly



This poem is written in defence of my casting off the shackles of copyright- indeed every word here is released into the winds of the public domain forever.