after crashin the sportscar
into the chandelier
i ran out t the phone booth
made a call t my wife. she wasnt home.
i panicked. i called up my best friend
but the line was busy
then i went t a party but couldnt find a chair
somebody wiped their feet on me
so i decided t leave
i felt awful. my mouth was puckered.
arms were stickin thru my neck
my stomach was stuffed an bloated
dogs licked my face
people stared at me an said
“what’s wrong with you?”
passin two successful friends of mine
i stopped t talk.
they knew i was feelin bad
an gave me some pills
i went home an began writin
a suicide note
it was then that i saw
that crowd comin down
the street
i really have nothing
against
marlon brando
[source]
4 comments:
"In the early nineteen sixties, the photographer Barry Feinstein asked his friend Bob Dylan to write some text to accompany a series of pictures of Hollywood. The result of their collaboration, rejected by a publisher at the time, will appear in November."
The New Yorker, Sept. 22, 2008 issue
(not sure which picture this poem accompanies, otherwise I'd post it)
fo shizzle?
yeah, I guess it's a book that's about to come out.
saw the New Yorker article -- picture is of a classic sports car parked in a garage that has a beautiful chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
Also has this briefer poem that I like a little more (no picture with this one):
21
death silenced her pool
the day she died
hovered over
her little toy dogs
but left no trace
of itself
at her
funeral
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