Dylan – Lonely Dansette


 It plays in my bedroom on my lonely Dansette 

The laments of Dylan of love and regret

 Words weaving through dreams my identity shaping 

Blowing wide a hole in suburbia gaping.   

Suffocation of the Fifties surrendered forever 

In homage I commit to this tireless endeavour 

To capture in writing HIS every stanza – 

This Sunday I declare a Zimmerman bonanza.   I

return to the Remington, clattering the keys Recalling the words – or so I believe 

Of the original lyrics of ‘Lay Lady Lay’ Catching every nuance, each measured delay.  

 There were no sleeve notes with the lyrics back then 

No Google discography to reveal where and when 

A disc was first pressed by which A and R men Or whether the artist preferred Buddha, or Zen.   

My appetite insatiable for fresh Dylan titles I steal singles from shops of his latest recitals 

To play them ad nauseam – hear every defect 

Each scratch a stigmata on my solitary project. 

The words they come slowly, the words they come mean 

They wink off the foolscap so pristine, so clean 

As if He had written them, today, in my room 

His musings inspired by the stygian gloom  

Of my black painted walls with their Lautrec posters 

Overflowing ashtrays and tattered beer coasters 

I imagine Him here, admiring my typing 

While gently suggesting that I improve the lighting.   

I play the track once more just for accuracies sake  

To reflect in amazement that it needed only one take 

To consign to the blackest of vinyl forever 

The works of the master of my emotional weather.   

My mother calls from below for some quiet 

She tires of my singular musical diet; I reply that the music will terminate soon 

But its part of my homework to transpose a tune.   

Too late, too late now, the spell has been broken 

His words on vellum the remaining token Of my love, my respect and my admiration For the natural born leader of our lost generation.            

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