“Dean is a combination of thought and torment that has made him write more than a baker’s dozen of fine poems.. he might produce a collection that could astound us all.” – Irving Layton, (“Canada’s greatest poet”- Leonard Cohen), nominated twice for the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Constrained by the easy consensus of cretins, brought down by the borrowings of boneheads, and held within the grasp of the Holier Than Thou Goobers of limited and stinking so-called knowledge in their cannibalistic hamster cage of doubt and regret, I hear Dylan croaking, ‘Crickets are chirping,’ (and the world ends there) ‘the water is high..’ ‘There’s a soft cotton dress..’
And it begins again: the noisy impudent world of opinion unearned and circumstance contrived by the unconscious who deliberately doubt when there isn’t room for it in this ship of retards schooled by ease, tormented by impunity, and entertained by that abscess within the cranial fold.
This is Dante’s ninth circle minus the seventh wave, leaching into the pit.
A hill of nightmare, conveyed by broken silences; the sudden rush of abruptly adopted pains, unplugged and unmitigated by the debt paid out through solitude served to the poor sustaining every temple.
Lead us o factotum, bring us to the river, drop us from the planes of existence – we will make pictures together as if history was contained in some other foreign, and forgotten weather.
One more chink in the chain, the defeatist gasps, then gasps again for reinforcement.
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