[lit-ideas] Re: Re-writing Dylan

Well, he does it. Now it's my turn:-

IDIOT WIND

Someone's got it
In for me
They're throwing chunks 
Of my heart
To the press
Someone oughta tell them
Cut it out quick
When they will
I can only guess

They say I killed
This man named Gray
Whisked his wife
To Italy
There she inherited
His million bucks
Then when she died
It all came to me
I can't help it
If I'm lucky

Idiot wind, blowing through the sleeves sewed on our coats
Idiot wind, drying every line on each letter that they wrote
Idiot wind, disturbing dust upon our shelves
We're idiots, it's a wonder we can even feed ourselves

I ran into
The fortune-teller
Who whispered
Beware of lightning
Whenever it strikes
I haven't known
Peace and quiet round here
For so long
I can't even remember what it was like

See that lone soldier
Up on that cross
Smoke pouring out of
A box-car door
To look at him (you mightn't know it)
But in the final end
He won his war
After losing every battle

I woke up by the roadside somewhere
Day-dreaming about the way things sometimes are
Visions of your chest-nut mare
Shot through my head
Making it see stars
You hurt the ones 
That I love best
Shroud every truth 
In lies
Someday you might 
Be in this ditch
Flies buzzing 
Around your eyes
Blood 
On your saddle 

Idiot wind, blowing every time you clench your teeth
Idiot wind, blowing every time you try to breathe
Idiot wind, rustling the curtains in our rooms
Drying out the flowers on our tomb

It was gravity
That pulled us down
Destiny?
It just pushed us
Apart
You tamed every lion
In this cage
It just wasn't enough
To tame this heart

Now everything's a little
Upside down
As a matter of fact
The wheels have dropped
What's good is bad
What's bad is good
You'll find out
When you reach the top
You're on the bottom

I noticed it at the ceremony
Your corrupt ways had finally 
Made you blind
I can't see your face anymore
Your mouth, your nose, your ears, your eyes
Your eyes
That don't look into mine

The priest wore black on the seventh day
Sat stone-faced while the churchyard burned
I waited for you by the running boards
Near the cypress tree
While springtime turned
Slowly
Into autumn

Idiot wind, chilling every crack drilled in my skull
Idiot wind, gushing from the Grand Coulee Dam to the Capitol
Idiot wind, blowing every time you halt a sneeze
We're idiots, it's a wonder that we still know how to breathe

I can't touch you anymore
I can't even bear 
To touch
The books you read
Everytime I've been crawling past this door
I've been wishing
I was somebody else
Instead
Down the highway
Over the tracks
Across the path
To ecstasy
I followed you beneath the stars
Hounded by your memory
And all your raging
Glory

I've been double-crossed
For the very last time
And now
I'm finally free
I kissed goodbye to that howling beast
On the borderline
That split 
You from me
You'll never know
This hurt I suffer
All this pain
I rise above
And I'll no longer know
The same about you
Your kindness 
Or your kind love
And it makes me feel
So sorry

Idiot wind, blowing every time we open our mouths
Idiot wind, whirling down the backroads
Heading south
Idiot wind, lifting the dust up from our shelves
We're idiots, it's a wonder we 
Can even feed
Ourselves  


Donal
Too much time on his hands
London




















--- On Fri, 30/1/09, Julie Krueger <juliereneb@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:

> From: Julie Krueger <juliereneb@xxxxxxxxx>
> Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: Inaugural Poetry
> To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
> Date: Friday, 30 January, 2009, 5:56 PM
> I have a compulsion to ask John how *he* felt after he
> reading it <g>.  And
> what, John, prompted your question?  I'm interested.
> 
> Julie Krueger
> 
> 
> 
> 
> On Fri, Jan 30, 2009 at 7:35 AM, Donal McEvoy
> <donalmcevoyuk@xxxxxxxxxxx>wrote:
> 
> >
> >
> >
> > --- On Thu, 29/1/09, Eric Yost
> <mr.eric.yost@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:
> >
> > > Where turnabout is fair play,
> >
> > Of course. But then you refer to the illiteratureate
> English for whom I
> > hold no brief. The example of their Poet Laureates
> does raise the question -
> > how often/seldom is "written-to-order"
> poetry much cop generally?
> >
> > Could even play a game of what certain poets (Eliot,
> Auden) might produce
> > if given a set task e.g. Queen's birthday;
> Charle's Divorce etc.
> >
> > Donal
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
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