Critic

 Critic

 

Dylan, he is not -

better suited to sorting

dead man’s socks

in the window

of the charity shop,

where no-one

in their right mind

would ever look,

seek to find or know no more.

 

Perpetually

in the buyer’s way,

winsome, willowy and fey,

or so he would like to think,

always teetering

on the brink,

of some huge discovery

like the correct way

to solder

porcelain to cutlery,

he jumps out

from behind the racks

of used pants, velvet hats

and gentlemen’s braces,

pulling faces

tripping the light fantastic,

with all the grace

of snapped elastic.

 

You’re wavering -

In amongst

the stacks of unsavoury

grubby fingered

cracked plastic casing

bigging up Young and Gates,

that nasty compilation

of S Club 8 –

a diamond in rough,

a sandwich filling,

 

Blonde on Blonde by Bob Dylan.

 

It’s in your hand,

at £2.99 today,

but £1 more

than usually

you’re prepared to pay.

 

He leaps out; chewing your ear

like a leopard wouldn’t

while chasing a Serengeti deer,

in a Dickie Atenboro’

flick screaming – Blonde on Blonde,

great album, great tracks –

he’s at your back,

and claws.

 

You want to attack,

punch his lights out,

a doughboy on his snout,

grind his goggles

beneath your feet,

let the bastard count sheep,

string an ivory necklace

with his tarnished teeth.

 

One for the masses,

us collecting classes,

whose opinions count,

who know our stuff –

 

he’s never had intellect enough

to even play this LP

repeats and bleats

what he’s heard others say,

but how many women

on how many rainy days

or sad eyed ladies

of the lowlands

could he even count?

 

Not stuck inside of mobile,

you content yourself

with a contemptuous stare

replacing the CD back where

it was like do I give a toss?

Piss off, your loss.