Bob Dylan I’d screw the young Dylan in a headdress between flayed columns & evergreens
		Alphabatize lesions. Swelling
	the meticulous, if tormented, transcription of a head
		But I’ve only been ahead so I guess
	trellised behind bean futures & nuclear fallout. London stoned. He’s much about
			Interstices, different versions of haircut
	The casting down as darling: So “the blood just ran out” and he was left “scared again” With brackish nausea on the threshold of a Bored Game. Swelling
		with illustrations of people walking off
	Shattered teens on facet planes. Blood On The Tracks
		scored lightly. I said, I break
	for strophes & isotopes. Dylan remains. Skeletal in studio light. Pan to face & dissolve “Are you sure there is an audience? I won’t go on if there’s no audience...”
				“Everywhere I turn, arms burst their darks!”