Tarantula

by Bob Dylan

anyway … i must go now—i have this new hunk of

  margarine waiting in the bathtub—yes i said

  MARGARINE & next week i just might decide to use

  cream cheese—& i really dont care what you

  think of my experimenting—you take yourself

  too seriously—youre going to get an ulcer &

  go into the hospital—they’ll put you in a

  ward where you cant have any visitors—you’ll

  go right off your nut—i really dont care anymore—

  i am so bored with your rules & regulations

  that i might not even talk to you again—just

  remember tho, when you evaluate a piece of

  butter, you are talking about yourself, so

  you’d just better sign your name … see you,

  if youre lucky, at mrs. keeler’s cake festival

  yours

  Snowplow Floater

  p.s. youre my friend & i’m trying to help you

  collision

  boss aint it awful the way

  they make you look at things

  as if you were inside of a toilet—

  their toilet!

  these sadistic nurses—they speak

  to me as if i was a finger—

  i lay in this bed unprotected &

  the fellow next door—he must

  be a Zulu—the doctors cant

  stand him

  & he gets no visitors—the

  Sister says he’s irreligious but

  i just think he gags alot

  boss three bodies got shipped out

  this morning—Lady Esther said that

  they went to the hunting ground—

  Cronie said that they never were

  worth much anyway & St. Crockasheet

  said abracadabra—Lady Esther is

  the cleaning lady & she was

  mopping up the beds when i woke

  up … there was some candle wax

  on the window—Cronie said not

  to touch it

  there is a sign in the hall that reads “Quiet”—

  it waits for no one—i think that is

  what makes people different than

  signs

  i say to him “they’ll get you”

  & he say “no” & i say “& if they

  dont get you, you’ll get yourself”

  & he say “you got bad manners &

  i go to church & nobody’s gonna

  get me” & then some guys wearing

  parachutes come in & give him

  a wiff of mint & hand him a

  peacock feather & then they slit

  his throat … i looked out the

  window & saw this car stop—it

  had a bumper sticker saying

  “Vote, Goat” & a man got out &

  wiped his feet on a doormat—

  he carried a book of Aesop’s Fables

  & then Lady Esther came in again

  & cleaned up the mess—i turned

  on the radio but all that was

  happening was the news

  boss aint it fierce the way that one

  woman with the Persian monkey treated

  the other woman with the Alley monkey?

  Claudette came to see me last nite—

  she doesnt own a monkey & she couldnt

  get it—then at the same time, the nurse

  came in & said “it’s raining cats &

  dogs outside—is it too much for you

  to bear ha ha?” i couldve swallowed her

  tonite i dance with Strawberry, the

  bloody clothes wife—i say her head,

  if necessary, would crack like an egg

  & she damns me—if i thank her

  then she calls me a whore so there’s

  no way out … my mind is with the kitchen

  workers but when they catch spiders &

  pull their legs off & laugh—it usually

  wakes me up … i am sick of people

  praising Einstein—bourgeois ghosts—

  i am sick of heroic sorrow

  as soon as i get out of here

  i’m going to my blood bank

  & make a withdrawal & go

  to Greece—Greece is beautiful

  & nobody understands you

  there

  the janitor with a glass eye—

  he’s all right—at least he

  minds his own business—he

  tells me that Shakespeare’s relatives

  killed his ancestors—& that now

  his brothers wont read Shakespeare …

  he says that he used to ride to

  church on a ox & when they sold

  the church, he sold the ox …

  the janitor, he’s ok … Lady

  Esther says that he aint never

  gonna amount to much but i

  never speak to Lady Esther &

  what does she know about people

  with glass eyes anyway?

  my bosom feels like the

  grave diggers have been at

  it all nite … tomorrow

  if i’m lucky, i’ll have breakfast

  in Heaven … some crazy fishhook dangles

  thru my window—i might as well

  get up & walk on my forehead—

  i might as well lose all my tickets …

  i wish there was something i

  wanted as badly as this fishhook

  wants to express itself

  dear mister congressman:

  it’s about my house—some time

  ago i made a deal with a syrup company

  to advertise their product on the side

  facing the street—it wasnt so bad at

  first, but soon they put up another

  ad on the other side—i didn’t even

  mind that, but then they plastered

  these women all over the windows with

  cans of syrup in their arms—in exchange

  the company paid my phone & gas bill &

  bought a few clothes for the tots—i told

  the town council that i’d do most anything

  just to let some sun in the house but they

  said we couldnt offend the syrup company

  because it’s called Granma Washington’s

  Syrup & people tend to associate it with

  the constitution … the neighbors dont help

  me at all because they feel that if anything

  comes off my house, it’ll have to go on theirs

  & none of them want their houses looking like

  mine—the company offered to buy my house as a

  permanent billboard sign, but God, i got my

  roots here & i had to refuse at first—now they

  tell me some negroes are moving in down the

  block—as you can see, things dont look

  too good at the moment—my eldest son is

  in the army so he cant do a thing—i

  would appreciate any helpful suggestion—

  thank you

  yours in allegiance

  Zorba the Bomb

  Cowboy Angel Blues

  meanwhile back in texas—beautiful texas—Freud paces back & forth—struggling with his boot & trying to finish his Vermouth—“fraid you got the wrong idea Mr. Clap—if i was you, i’d give in & go chop those trees down for my mother—after all, there’s a little mother in all of us” “yes but i mean why do you think i do it? why do you think i intentionally set fire to my bed everytime she asks me to cut down those trees? why?” “yes—well—Mr. Clap—perhaps it is the womb calling—you know—perhaps when you were a little boy, you heard a tree falling & the sound of it went WOOOOM & now as you are older—everytime you hear that sound—in one form or another of course—you just want to—oh shall we say—light it up?” “yes that seems logical—thank you very much—i feel to go chop those trees down now” “ah but remember son—a tree falling in the
forest without any sound has nobody to hear it!” “yes—well—i shall be there then—i shall not burn my bed anymore” “good—let me know of your progress & if anything drastic comes up—here—take these pills—by the way, you should call your mother ‘Stella’ just to show her that you mean business—oh & while youre at it, could you chop me some firewood please?” “yes—all right—thank you very much again—excuse me sir—are you having some trouble with your boot?” “no—no—my leg’s just getting a little hairier—that’s all” … get back to this beautiful texas & dont swap that cow—Corpus Christi aflame—common thieves—maggots & millionaires trading sons & dollars & rolling back chumps—the black gypsy lady & Buddy Holly himself into the tanks & voids held up to Scrawny Horizon by Lee Marvin & the forty thieves BRILLIANT & Sancho Panza Remembered like in an Arabic moonbook & Malcolm X Forgotten like a caught fish & wonder—ah wonder just what—just what That means … Lovetown so pathetic & the grown men crying—the winds are anchored here & you do not disturb these tears nor rivers—you do not take baths in the abandoned bathtubs but rather mix electric herbs & be watchdog to the Great White Mountain … Funky Phaedra—in the center of a No Disturb sign & Black Ace singing—she tries to outstare a bowl of money—she—as they say—has one foot in the grave—the apprentice clown, Tomboy, at her feet—he’s known professionally as Rabbit Rough & plays a homemade steel guitar—when loaded, he really bites into it—Weep the Greed is watching the happening from a caved-in mare & he lights a cigarette with one of his stolen wanted posters … “love is magic” says Phaedra—Funky Phaedra—Rabbit dont say nothing—Weep the Greed says “go to it gal!” “love is wonderful” says Phaedra “get ’m, stranger!” says Weep the Greed—Phaedra takes off her stetson—five bunnies & a nickel shot full of holes jump out “which way’s laos?” says one of the bunnies “some trick!” says Weep the Greed—“love is that gliding feeling” “yipee! & i’ll be a coonbong!” says Weep the Greed “love is gentleness—softness—creaminess” says Phaedra—who is now having a pillow fight—her weapon, a mattress—she stands on a deserted marshmallow—her foe, some Unitarian who’s fallen off one a them high sierras & lived to tell about it—he holds a fascist pint of yogurt “love is riding a striped mare across the orgy plains on barbarian sunday” screams Rabbit Rough, the apprentice clown—this is the first thing he’s said all day & now he hesitates—Phaedra—meanwhile—is getting beaten in the fight—“sure it is” says Weep the Greed “& then your mare ends up like this one—then you put your arm in a sling—your feet in a vault & then you get a job working for a camel—right?” Phaedra—totally wiped out from the fight—she comes crawling back—seizes Rabbit—pulls his shirt off—twists his arm behind his back & throws him into the windmill—Weep the Greed gets busted by the Padres & all the wanted posters fly over the united states—the mare gets confiscated & held without bail … Mr. Clap—meantime—makes another visit to Freud “only rich people can afford you” he says “only rich people can afford all art—isnt that the way it is?” “isnt that the way it always has been?” says Freud “ah yes” says Mr. Clap with a sigh—“by the way—how’s the mother?” “oh she’s ok—you know her name’s Art—she makes a lot of money” “oh?” “yes—i’ve told her all about you—you must come to the house some time” “yes” says Freud with a martha raye type grin “yes—perhaps i will” … Phaedra pounding her knuckles into a piece of water—scratching her snake bites—a getaway car goes by consisting of: three lying hunters off the Brazos River—two window-peeking mothers each holding some decayed pictures of lili st. cyr—a side order of bacon—some underprivileged bonus babies shot full of dexedrine—a painter with a plate on his face—one barbell—Dracula smoking a cigarette & eating an angel—the ghost of cheetah, madame nhu & bridey murphy all wrapped in toothpaste—a box of magic wands & one innocent bystander … needless to say—there is no more room in the car—Phaedra scowls & she bellows “love is going PLUMB INSANE” & wine bottle breaking—texas exploding & dinner by the sea—ship commanders with perfect features—theyre seen—theyre seen by truckdrivers—the truckdrivers complain of hijacking & see these ship commanders riding stallions into the howling Gulf of Mexico & here comes Phaedra “love is going plumb insane” … she is walking by Mr. Clap—who is smiling—he wears his cap inside out—he’s eating good fruit—HE’LL be all right—Mr. Clap—he’ll be all right

  dear buzz:

  i want the bibles marked up thirty percent—

  to justify the markup, i want free hairbrushes

  given away with each bible—also, the chocolate

  jesuses should not be sold in the south … one

  more thing, concerning the end of the world

  game—perhaps if you had some germ warfare for

  it you could sell it for twice as much—things

  kinda stormy round here—office in turmoil—

  secretary wiped out recently—guess what happened

  to the pictures of the pres? yeah well some

  joker drew a earring on him in the original print

  & somehow it slipped by the production staff—

  needless to say, we couldn’t get rid of any

  of them around here that’s for sure, so we had

  to ship them all to puerto rico—thing worked

  out ok tho—distributors down there said they

  went like hot cakes … almost as fast as the

  red white & blue hamburger sets—oh—i meant to

  tell you, i think if you made the “i voted for

  the winner” buttons triangle shaped, they might

  go a little faster … by the way, i did tell you

  to send the “i’m a beatles eater” handkerchiefs to

  the dominican republic & Not to england—fraid you

  made a little mistake there, buzzy boy! like i

  said, office in turmoil—got a new kid but he fell

  in the water cooler right away … he’s suing us for

  teeth damage—lotza problems

  see you in the cafeteria

  bosom buddy,

  syd dangerous

  Subterranean Homesick Blues

  & the Blond Waltz

  let me say this about Justine—she was 5 ft.2 & had Hungarian eyes—her belief was that if she could make it with Bo Diddley—she could get herself straight—now Ruthy—she was different—she always wanted to see a cock fight & went to Mexico City when she was 17 & a runaway castoff—she met Zonk when she was 18—Zonk came from her home town—at least that’s what he said when he met her—when they busted up, he said he never heard of the place but that’s beside the point—anyway these three—they make up the Realm Crew … i met them exactly at their table & they took 2 years of sanction from me but i never talk much about it myself—Justine was always trying to prove she existed as if she really needed proof—Ruthy—she was always trying to prove that Bo Diddley existed & Zonk he was trying to prove that he existed just for Ruthy but later on said that he was just trying to prove he existed to himself—me? i started wondering about whether anybody existed but i never pushed it too much—especially when Zonk was around—Zonk hated himself & when he got too high he thought everybody was a mirror one day i discovered that my secrets were puny—i tried to build them up but Justine said “this is the Twentieth Century baby—i mean you know—like they dont do that anymore—why dont you go walk on the street—that’ll build up your secrets—it’s no use to spend all these hours a day doing it in a room—youre losing living—i mean like if you wanna be some kinda charles atlas, go right ahead … but you better head off for muscle beach—i mean you just might as well snatch jayne mansfield—become king of your kind & start some kind of secret gymnasium” … after being ridiculed to such a degree—i decided to leave my secrets alone & Justine—Justine was right—my secrets got bigger—in fact they grew so big that they outweighed my body … i hitchhiked alot in those days & you had to be ready—you never knew what kind of people you were gonna meet
on the road

  i sang in a forest one day & someone said it was three o’clock—that nite when i read the newspaper, i saw that a tenement had been set aflame & that three firemen Sc nineteen people had lost their lives—the fire was at three o’clock too … that nite in a dream i was singing again—i was singing the same song in the same forest & at the same time—in the dream there was also a tenement blazing … there was no fog & the dream was clear—it was not worth analyzing as nothing is worth analyzing—you learn from a conglomeration of the incredible past—whatever experience gotten in any way whatsoever—controlling at once the present tense of the problem—more or less like a roy rogers & trigger relationship of which under present western standards is an impossibility—me singing—i moved from the forest—frozen in a moment & picked up & moved above land—the tenement blazing too at the same moment being picked up & moved towards me—i, still singing & this building still burning ‥ needless to say—i & the building met & as instantly as it stopped, the motion started again—me, singing & the building burning—there i was—in all truth—singing in front of a raging fire—i was unable to do anything about this fire—you see—not because i was lazy or loved to watch good fires—but rather because both myself & the fire were in the same Time all right but we were not in the same Space—the only thing we had in common was that we existed in the same moment … i could not feel any guilt about just standing there singing for as i said i was picked up & moved there not by my own free will but rather by some unbelievable force—i told Justine about this dream & she said “that’s right—lot of people would feel guilty & close their eyes to such a happening—these are people that interrupt & interfere in other people’s lives—only God can be everywhere at the same Time & Space—you are human—sad & silly as it might seem” … i got very drunk that afternoon & a mysterious confusion entered into my body—“when i hear of the bombings, i see red & mad hatred” said Zonk—“when i hear of the bombings, i see the head of a dead nun” said i—Zonk said “what?” … i have never taken my singing—let alone my other habits—very seriously—ever since then—i have just accepted it—exactly as i would any other crime

  the soldier with the long beard says go ask questions my son but the shaggy orphan says that it’s all a hype—the bearded soldier says what’s a hype? & the shaggy orphan says what’s a son? the taste of bread is common yet who can & who cares to tell someone else what it tastes like—it tastes like bread that’s what it tastes like … to find out why Bertha shouldnt push the man off the flying trapeze you dont find out by thinking about it—you find out by being Bertha—that’s how you find out