the music of bob dylan


feeling real bad tonight

a real bad drum and a real bad guitar

and this real bad poetry

mowing pimple scars

chewing suicide like gum

rocking and rolling beneath the surface

of my rancid tongue

while i fix my solvent eyes on you

with that inside your boxer shorts – high and milky –

nasty yellow necktie

(i kneel down,

cornered by your pinching and primitive smile)

illusions.  a methinks situation.  a wannabe.

hard times – these mocking times of struggle

the lube – its frenzy – the femme magick – butch tragedy.

well i guess everyone is horny tonight –

but then again, the floor is sticky

with my sweat ALONE

and my lover is shitting in his pants here.

curly hair.  me: a damsel loving a burnt-out whore

this real and wild and bad love

of missing – of not feeling the feeling – of cherishing –

this hand that strums your snoozing guitar.

these bottles – of murdering thoughts,

Blowin’ In the Wind on the damned side of my mind

or Eddie Vedder – a suck me pout on teevee

to salute this shaking self

that losses everything

withstands nothing

but

our wild bad selves

and Bob Dylan knocking on heaven’s door.

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