A post concerning Bob Dylan in a kind of vague, almost inconsequential way


This whole piece was the result of the first line, “the falling rain is a Bob Dylan song”.  It just popped into my head as I was driving to work today and stuck there, lingering in the corridors of my mind, rattling the pipes and banging on the registers, basically kicking up a fuss like a middle child desperately seeking the validation and attention of a delinquent parent.  So in between dealing with morons, assholes, cretins, and general all around mouth breathing, egocentric, over blown sense of entitlement jizz monkeys that my company likes to call “customers” I banged this out in a kind of verbal equivalent to a seizure or tent revival visitation.  It still doesn’t seem quite finished even though I have done some of my one the fly patchwork edits as I typed it out from my handy black and white cow spotted composition book, so if anyone out there has any suggestions, comments or ravings of hatred and/or contempt inspired by this little piece of madness, feel free to comment in the appropriate section of this fine publication.  That’s all for now, Red 5 over and out.

The falling rain is a Bob Dylan song

Played out on concrete and the dull slap of wiper blades

Smearing neon across windshields

Cars hissing by are ghosts under sodium yellow street lamp headache glare.

Rolling out into the night

Boot heels scrape staccato counterpoint

As I move down the street gleaming oil slick sheen

Wondering restless and dreaming

Among the upturned collars, hunch shouldered

Shuffle scurry two-step performers on their way

From here to somewhere else.

Lights spill out from shop fronts and restraunts

Cheerful gold running down the sidewalk

Everything looks like an oil painting doused in turpentine

Dali dreaming mescalin surreal landscape

As I trip through the doors Aldous left carelessly ajar,

Finger painting the old brownstones as I pass in misconceptual musing.

It’s one of those nights

Where I  just trade the loneliness of my room

For the loneliness of midnight streets

Surrounded by Brownian motion bodies

Pinball bounce from club to dive to coffee shop

Looking for answers to questions I don’t remember asking

Or having even come up with yet

Seeking mystical visions or transcendental revelations

In the bottom of old coffee cups

Or the dead fish eye reflection

Of graveyard shift blank stares.

Out there, somewhere, I know that others are dreaming

I can feel it all telegraph wire in the blood

Humming along to words plucked from  the bruise purple night overcast sky

They are out there and I am on the street with a butterfly net and ink stained fingers

Trying to make sense of why I am soaked to the bone

Looking for something when I don’t really know what it is

Just that I need it and it’s somewhere

In this city, in the rain coming down

Like a song by Bob Dylan.

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One Response to “A post concerning Bob Dylan in a kind of vague, almost inconsequential way”

  1. One of the reasons we exist…
    to observe, carefully, then filter experience into a context for others who happen along
    rain-soaked with the buterfly net, ever hopeful

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