Das Dylan Experiment – Nachschlag

Bild: Xiart.at. CC-BY-3.0, zugeschnitten

Etwas loser als zuvor an den hier dargelegten Regeln orientiert habe ich noch weitere Versuche unternommen den assoziativen Dylan-Stil der mittleren Schaffensphase zu imitieren und so ein wenig zu entzaubern. Für alle, die es interessieren könnte:

insular rhapsody

a western wind was rising
people were talking strange
they built houses by the river
like a mountain range

there was a gentle rustling
far in the distant trees
hebriphrenic frogsounds
sang aeoulic harmonies

and dressed into a nightgown
I was dining with queen mum
she said ‚welcome to britain
or maybe its wonderland‘

yeah I’ve been wandring through kansas
now I dont know where I am
she said ‚welcome to britain
or maybe wonderland‘ …

but why so pale, oh queene?
i ran out to the street
into an electric giant
proudly displaying his feet

Jesus had sent his servant
with  reciding hair
there was music on Clinton Street
devolution in the air,

I stood on the gloomy sidewalk,
smoking a flashing chime
I asked the preacher for advice
he said “your no sone of mine”

I asked the preacher and asked him twice
and also if he knew the time
he a punched me lika a madman
then he threw me a dime …

now the city streets where lonely
night birds wouldnt sing nor dance
police was combing through northern town
for the chums of chance

I trotted through rotten alleys
to the parliament of dreams
where pit read milton by candlelight
or that was, how it seemed

then I spilled Irish whiskey
into the southern sea
and woke up to a mirror
mumbling dismissivly

mirror, mirror, the mirror said
like wind rustling in a tree
who‘ the king who’s the butterfly?
and I asked, who could it be?

mirror, mirror, the mirror said
like wind rustling in a tree
who‘ the king who’s the butterfly?
I asked, who could it be?

yes, who‘ the king who’s the butterfly?
comeon, surely, it ain’t me?

„what i see becomes a metaphor“ song #1

the teabags in the sewer
have mostly dried
casino’s closed, the romans have left
blackbirds chirping songs
of love and theft
and brother martins bluer than the southern sky

its an endless journey
to the other side of town
but the eagle’s landed
and the infarmary’s
burnt down

the cigarett neath the doorpost
is burning still
yellow schoolbus stops, no one gets out
headline in the paper
„seaven years of drought“
sweet love-words rotting on the window sill

its an endless journey
to the other side of town
but the eagle’s landed
and the infarmary’s
burnt down

now here comes brother martin
down the road
the winding river, walk of life
partin the sea
with a kitchen knife
gives a penny to a beggar, and steals his coat

its an endless journey
to the other side of here
but the fish have landed
and the brewery’s
out of beer

now let me paint a golden country
(seven) seas of rhye
a golden boy with a golden touch
& preach the sermon
of the golden crouch
come on ye faithful, get up, reach out, try

but its an endless journey
to the other side of now
and the eagle’s landed
right on the
golden cow…

its an endless journey
to the other side of ‚true‘
and the seagull’s landed
landed…
right on you…

a pair of wornout sneakers
crowns the wicked gate
dull roots clutchin‘, barren trees
swallows chirping songs
of birds and bees
brother martin’s thirsty, and its gettin‘ late

its still an endless journey
to the other side of town
but the eagle’s landed
and that black cloud’s
comin‘ down

its an endless journey
to the other side of here
but a soft lights shining
and that sign says
have a beer

its an endless journey
to the other side of now
but the cows demented
and the plowman’s
sold his plow

(singer makes up his own silly rhymes while music slowly shifts to well known tune … angels choir from afar: „show me the way to the next whiskey bar / Oh, don’t ask why“)

nonsens #XX

we lived like drunken ducklings
on the edge of blue
you limped on worn out crouches
but your tail-wings were all new

me i smoked a trashcan
of engedis wine
how we sniffed the ashes, then
to ballads byzantine

we carved that unreal city
into claudius  rotten caves
and you, you looked so pretty
on misses thatchers graves

i’d love to paint you naked
now, in your ivory crown
i might have to fake it
i’d never get it down…

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