In der Onlineausgabe des New Yorker gibt es heute zwei Gedichte von Bob Dylan zu lesen. Was Bob uns mitteilen möchte, ist mir allerdings noch ein Rätsel. Lest selbst:

17
by Bob Dylan
September 22, 2008

after crashin the sportscar
into the chandelier
i ran out t the phone booth
made a call t my wife. she wasnt home.
i panicked. i called up my best friend
but the line was busy
then i went t a party but couldnt find a chair
somebody wiped their feet on me
so i decided t leave
i felt awful. my mouth was puckered.
arms were stickin thru my neck
my stomach was stuffed an bloated
dogs licked my face
people stared at me an said
“what’s wrong with you?”
passin two successful friends of mine
i stopped t talk.
they knew i was feelin bad
an gave me some pills
i went home an began writin
a suicide note
it was then that i saw
that crowd comin down
the street
i really have nothing
against
marlon brando

Und auch das zweite Gedicht ist nicht weniger tödlich:

21
by Bob Dylan
September 22, 2008

death silenced her pool
the day she died
hovered over
her little toy dogs
but left no trace
of itself
at her
funeral

Ideen?