It was alcohol in 1953 did Dylan in,
No perhaps when the liver gives out.
Words like a dictionary in spate
Rampage after page of life’s dispute.
Swansea hadn’t heard the like,
New York neither as it took a look
At tragic poet doing tragic poet
Running with him a hell’s season, like a pet.
He could only ever be who he was
Same name, same desires, because.
His book all over their shelves,
His legend one no one solves.
It’s a world of most personal inflection,
A world of crass mass production.
The evidence of towering ambition
Scatters to the four corners of inhibition.
A Jew will change his name in a hurry
Who wants to be the next Woody Guthrie.
Minnesota, special on short winter days
But not when he has a head full of ideas
Driving him insane and freedom
Is just around the corner, a poem
Pitted against indifference to the Same.
Hey Jimmy don’t I know your name?
Misheard? A lifetime of aliases
Says he will only ever be who he is
In a world of most personal production
That cares nothing for his bass inflections.
Same game, same desires, because.
And all he says ends up in loss.
Or not quite, where two or a few
May gather, without payment of a fee.
Kindergarten is a wall of sun scrawls
And in a corner his name scrolls.
It’s Welsh, says his grandparents’ guide,
Means wide flow of water or great tide.
For in just a little while a solar image
And attention may lead to ideas rampage.
Amplifiers ride up high the vinyl blow,
It’s scratchy but it’s ‘Tangled Up In Blue’.
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