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This is not a review, but a kind of Dylan-esque apocrypha that appeared to me in a dream. Maybe I should have separated the wheat from the chaff, that is, put Uncle Bob's quotes in quotation marks. But it won't be difficult for you to recognize them, everything that is fabulous is his, everything that sucks is mine.
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Jingle jangle morning...
The air comes like a trap. The dawn, the beard, the curve of the throat. Watch out for the blade, watch out for the hand that's trembling. Don't worry mom, everything's fine... I'm just bleeding.
So? Switch to an electric razor? Not a bad idea. Besides, now that I think about it, I could give a bit of electricity to the guitars as well.
Yes yes yes!!! Because what's in my head mom is a clanging sound...
And a train...
Yes, yes a train...
I'll cram millions of words into it, shove them in by force, if necessary. I have a damn power, I could fit a circus in a jar, miss hundred kilos in a cradle, my enormous ego in a pincushion.
Oh mom, the whistle of the night, the screeching on blinding rails under the stars!!!
Behind the moon of the windows there will be flowers, failures, ravens, reindeer, sailors, cascades of pity, orphans with rifles.
It's all such chaos mom, you can't sing like before the flood...
No more music of the spheres then, just the touch of some anxious, unnamable color...
The underground blues longs for home, the sky crumples under my feet and the apocalypse is my favorite game.
Then there is the darkness striking at noon, the shadow that even reaches the silver spoon, the one from the good set.
Ah mom, I have to hurry, the highway is for gamblers and whatever I decide to keep, I must grasp it quickly.
Senses on alert, then... spasmodic tongue, explosive rhymes.
Not only!!!
Also a subtle, mercurial sound for her, she who never looks back. Little Ketty, sad child, Lisa with blue eyes.
Then...
Then...
Then I'd like to sing a transcendent song, one of those that explain everything without explaining anything.
Something with a non-bearing logical thread and sensations more than good reasoning.
Imagine a melody all wispy and everything like in watermark, a thing where the words don't need to be forced in oh no, the words settle down happily.
Ah mom, you don't know how much I studied: the guy with wind soles, the child whose name was written on water, little Gelsomina with a tambourine in hand...
And in the end, I found myself on this sort of immaterial bridge, on one side tiredness, on the other something better left undefined, but maybe...
Maybe it's a kind of morning, when the air comes like a trap, the dawn, the beard, the curve of the throat...
But I'm not here anymore...
Hi mom, I arrived at one...
Trallallà...
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