Before the advent
Of soulful Anima,
That led at last to Milk Wood
And glimpses, at least,
Of wholeness and true love,
Dylan’s adopted muse
Was demonic Demiurge:
No humble poet-prophet he,
Awaiting impregnation
By the Holy Ghost,
But a thrusting, spouting,
Phallus-penned
Lucifer incarnate,
Who bodied forth
His hubristic, fragmented
Shadow-spirit
In showers of sharp, dark, spinning,
Spellbinding verbal shards –
Words, he believed,
For word’s sake –
Which almost shattered his mind,
Extinguished his heart,
And eclipsed and obscured
The simple light
Of his indivisible,
God-created Soul.
Jerusalem
27 July 2011