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Music legend Bob Dylan's only work of fiction—a combination of stream of consciousness prose, lyrics, and poetry that gives fans insight into one of the most influential singer-songwriters of our time.
Written in 1966, Tarantula is a collection of poems and prose that evokes the turbulence of the times in which it was written, and gives a unique insight into Dylan's creative evolution. It captures Bob Dylan's preoccupations at a crucial juncture in his artistic development, showcasing the imagination of a folk poet laureate who was able to combine the humanity and compassion of his country roots with the playful surrealism of modern art. Angry, funny, and strange, the poems and prose in this collection reflect the concerns found in Dylan's most seminal music: a sense of protest, a verbal playfulness and spontaneity, and a belief in the artistic legitimacy of chronicling everyday life and eccentricity on the street.
our feet & we meet tongue tied broken vulgar geeks with gorilla handshakes & drunken Hercules waits for us on our beds & we must salute him & he says that the new helicopters have arrived & “this is your geek” & “you will take your orders from him” yes the rewards are few here but there are no oaths to take nor mental strokes—excpt for the self conscious insanity brought in by hunters with radios wearing religious clothes, all goes well … Angola being bombed this morning, i right now am happy
medals for bravery “it’s nice to have medals aint it monsterass?” they cannot be separated these two friends … they are invited to speak at religious & college gatherings & finally become board members of the rootbeer industry “it’s nice to have all the rootbeer you can drink aint it fishturd?” an ABSOLUTE bond that cannot be broken … one day one of the friends discovers that he’s never been doing any of the talking … he inquires about it but gets no response—he murders the other friend & some
after where i live now, the only thing that keeps the area going is tradition—as you can figure out—doesnt count very much—everything around me rots—i dont know how long it has been this way, but if it keeps up, soon i will be an old man—& i am only 15—the only job around here is mining—but jesus, who wants to be a miner … i refuse to be part of such a shallow death—everybody talks about the middle ages as if it was actually in the middle ages— i’ll do anything to leave here—my mind
his nose! you can see where he goes by offering to pay his dues—fox eyes, he’s got lotza blues—Tiny the chick with the wet newspaper, she used to bring french fries to the mechanics & whose right arm once went deaf & dumb (it can happen to some) she sees fox eyes come climbing out of the stop sign & he’s got a hangover on top of it & she say “oh great grooby fox eyes. lead me to the garbage” & he take her by the lilywhitecottonpickin hand & she say “yeah man i be a yellow monkey
with her neck in a noose was all that i could find look. i dont care if you are a merchant marine. the next time you start telling me i dont walk right, i’m gonna get some surfer to slap your face. i think youre being very paranoid about the whole thing … see you at the wedding stompingly yours Lazy Henry Mouthful of Loving Choke crow jane from the wedding into the beast nest where wild man peter the greek & ambassador frenchy do primitive worship with hustling john from coney