bobdylanpaint

Lord Protect My Child

2012-01-25T19:39:00.000Z

Happy New Year from Cannon Hill Park

2011-12-31T18:03:00.000Z

brushes is groovy

2011-12-30T15:38:00.000Z

Peter helped me find my shed

2011-12-30T14:27:00.000Z

app called brushes

2011-12-29T17:39:00.002Z

Figure * 1

2011-11-23T21:17:00.000Z

Desolation Row

2011-11-22T20:42:00.000Z

To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness

Reuben James Quintet Sidestep

2011-11-17T22:28:00.000Z

Ann Duggan/Abram Wilson/Rob Hines /Reuben James..... Georgia

2011-11-17T18:32:00.002Z

Bigger figure

2011-09-01T16:46:00.000+01:00

Reclining figures

2011-09-01T13:19:00.001+01:00

Crouching figure

2011-08-31T19:27:00.000+01:00

Figures in a storm

2011-08-31T19:23:00.002+01:00

Titles are for the house of lords

2011-08-30T18:43:00.002+01:00

Landscape with trees

2011-08-29T10:24:00.000+01:00

Nude : after a drawing by Matisse

2011-08-28T11:28:00.000+01:00

Negativity wont pull you through

2011-08-26T14:44:00.000+01:00

Tree of Knowledge

2011-08-25T19:10:00.002+01:00

James Butler born 25th august 1911

2011-08-25T10:27:00.000+01:00

Freedom freedom

2011-08-24T19:11:00.002+01:00

Dawning story 2

2011-08-23T08:07:00.001+01:00

Dawning story

2011-08-23T07:31:00.001+01:00

Flyover flip x 2

2011-08-21T20:01:00.001+01:00

Flyover flip x 1

2011-08-21T19:42:00.000+01:00

Death throes of capitalism

2011-08-20T12:08:00.002+01:00

One for Diego Rivera

2011-08-19T22:43:00.000+01:00

Give me the strength

2011-08-17T17:08:00.002+01:00

4 years for using facebook?

2011-08-17T12:30:00.002+01:00

Apologize Mr Starkey x 2

2011-08-16T11:55:00.000+01:00

Apologize Mr Starkey

2011-08-16T11:51:00.001+01:00

Polly See and the Milly Band

2011-08-15T19:08:00.001+01:00

Cameron and the Feds

2011-08-15T19:05:00.002+01:00

Riots on my large screen t.v.

2011-08-14T19:01:00.001+01:00

despair on the streets

2011-08-11T19:54:00.001+01:00

If this is the last thing I do

2011-08-11T19:44:00.001+01:00

Seemed like a good thing to do

2011-08-10T20:22:00.000+01:00

an even better thing to do

2011-08-08T10:16:00.003+01:00

what are we going to do now

2011-08-08T10:11:00.004+01:00

Happy 70th birthday Mr Dylan

2011-05-23T21:02:00.006+01:00

I came across Bob Dylan as a teenager, perhaps 13 or 14 years old, in 1963. I was visiting my elder sister Chris and her friends who shared a student flat in Barrons Court. One of the girls Annie had a copy Freewheelin’, Dylan’s second album. I distinctly remember being struck by the cover, Dylan and a young women hurrying down a snow covered street. I later found out it was his girlfriend Suze Rotolo, she looked a little like my sister Chris. The photo spoke of a world away from my life on a council estate in Birmingham. The standout track for me then and now was “Girl from the North Country” it had a wistful romantic quality that fed my adolescent dreams and still does.

Other brushes with what became the Dylan phenomenon soon followed and I can remember seeing him sing “Gates of Eden” on Cliff Mitchelmore’s Tonight TV programme. what the hell was he singing about? I didn’t know much about poetry; I was reading a lot of boy’s literature, and what was passed to me as culture by my Catholic Grammar School, Julius Caesar etc. I had been taken to Paris by my eldest sister Kath, so I knew that the world didn’t end at the bottom of our garden, I had also imbibed a fair amount of catholic dogma and was grappling with sin and eternity as presented by intolerant Irish priests, I clearly had a great deal to learn and much to escape from.

I became interested in politics at about the same time, and have a memory of seeing the Aldermaston Ban the Bomb march in London. Students in duffel coats and college scarfs. My father, Jim, had served in the RAF during the war and it would have greatly pleased him if I was to follow in his footsteps, and I had duly joined the School Air cadet squadron. I shot a 303 rifle on the range and marched up and down the school playground, and gleaned the rudiments of internal combustion, (suck squeeze bang wheeze); my understanding of car mechanics has never progressed beyond that. I read a lot of war comics where “Jerries shouted Achtung before brave lantern jawed commandoes killed them with submachine guns. Seeds of rebellion however were being planted in my brain, mostly by Kath who was in her 20’s and smoked Senior Service and rode a mans bike in her Levi jeans. For Dylan the times were a changing and blowin in the wind. Whilst on TV the satire boom of TW3 fed my burgeoning anti establishment bias . I stopped going to Mass and got into fights at school by supporting nuclear disarmament.

By the time I was 18 and a spotty 6th former I had blossomed into a Trotskyite reading the Socialist Labour League’s Newsletter to a RE class and a bemused Father John (a liberal priest who supported liberation theology and subsequently left the priesthood). Dylan wasn’t approved of by the Trots, certainly not his druggy 1965/6 output, and his self imposed retreat to Woodstock took him off everybodies radar. Psychedelia was deemed to be for decadent petit bourgeois youth by the comrades and didn’t fit in with the coming revolutionary situation. I became workerish in my style and inclinations, preferring Jerry Lee Lewis to Sgt Pepper. I disdainfully dropped out of art college to became a Bus Driver and started paying my Union dues.

I had moved to Nottingham in 1969 and at a terminus café break put Dylan on the Juke Box, “Lay Lady Lay” smoothed it's way out . Jesus Christ!!! he sounded like a spaced out Don Williams, what was going on? Country music was redneck, racist and right wing. However I was sufficiently curious enough to buy my first Dylan Album, “Greatest Hits”. I had become a HiFi freak and had blown a months savings (£100) on a Garrard deck Goodmans speakers and Armstrong amp and tuner, my brother piss taked that I was spending my life at the apex of a sound triangle in my search for true stereo, I blissfully had Dylan on my left and Happy Traum’s banjo on my right or was it the other way round? Moving back to Brum I was introduced by my first serious girlfriend; Flo, to Reggae music. Serious Dylan addiction was still sometime off.

By the mid 70's the much promised revolutionay situation was becoming less likely as Wilson morphed into Callaghan, comrades saw conspiracy everywhere, and I jumped off my yellow and blue bus and began to study Politics and American Studies at Swansea University . Somebody had done a paper on Dylan and American Politics, but I was consumed by the Cuban guerrilla foco, and the novels of John Updike, an unlikely combination I grant you, and into that heady mix I include Turgenev’s “Sketches from a Hunters Album” and Willa Cather’s “O Pioneer” as beacons which began to loosen my Trot workerish tendencies and inspire a softer poetic muse. I kept seeing copies of Dylan’s “Blood on the Tracks” around Swansea but I spent my money on the likes of Steely Dan and Chicago. One track from the Dylan diaspora that penetrated my consciousness was the Band’s “The Weight”.

By 1979 the revolution started, led by the Blessed Margaret, it wasn't what I expected at all. I married Flo in 1980 and with the birth of my daughter Ruth I began a confusing journey away from Politics and into Painting. Starting with timid watercolours my creativity started to expand and with that the need to feed it with something other than what I could see began. As I entered my 5th decade, my weariness with the bureaucracies I had worked in began to wear me down, depressions took hold and subversive thought of escape consumed me. Ruth had been joined by Reuben, surely they would enjoy my tastes in music? However my family would protest when I tried to share my growing Dylan CD collection with them. Listening to Dylan became a private passion, usually indulged in whilst driving. Tracks like Brownsville Girl and Highlands would be played over and over again, generating a trance like state, not good for road safety but blissful for my mental health. I began working on paintings inspired by Dylan lyrics.

All this culminated at an exhibition of my work in 2007, to which I invited Dylan,...... amazingly he didn’t show. I'm still addicted to his music, but I am getting help to cut down. He is the most Infuriating person, but you have to love him for his style. What I most respect is his understanding of the creative process and the need to move on constantly. However I am resolved never to see him in a stadium again, have I seen my last Dylan gig ? do I need to move on from Dylan?

barack bob dont

2011-05-03T22:50:00.002+01:00

bob barack dont

2011-05-03T22:45:00.003+01:00

Why does he look so righteous while your face is so changed

bob dont barack

2011-05-03T22:37:00.003+01:00

Brownsville girl with your Brownsville curls
Teeth like pearls shining like the moon above

barack dont bob

2011-05-03T22:29:00.003+01:00

But power and greed and corruptible seed
Seem to be all that there is

dont bob barack

2011-05-03T22:22:00.001+01:00

Live by no man’s code
And hold your judgment for yourself
Lest you wind up on this road

dont barack bob

2011-05-03T22:10:00.002+01:00

While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred-dollar plates

Suze

2011-02-28T10:03:00.004Z

I was saddened to hear about the death of Suze Rotolo

left wing activist and committed civil rights worker.

My deepest sympathy goes to all her family and friends.

Freefeelin' no 3

2010-10-05T15:27:00.003+01:00

Freefeelin' no 2

2010-10-04T16:52:00.003+01:00

Freefeelin' no 1

2010-10-04T16:34:00.003+01:00

free peelin'

2010-08-08T14:30:00.005+01:00

another take on freewheelin'

Bob Dylan Masters of War

2010-08-06T14:10:00.002+01:00

oil on canvas 60cmx100cm

free kneelin'

2010-07-24T19:55:00.004+01:00

Bob Dylan Freewheelin'

2010-07-06T19:43:00.004+01:00

Oil on canvas 60 x 40 cm
£75 plus postage

Nu werk

2010-06-26T09:14:00.008+01:00

aye stijl payunt hokasjunally
36x24 inches acrylic on canvas
for sale £50 GBP plus postage

fagin

2010-06-20T11:07:00.001+01:00

u gotta pick a pocket or 2

wow

2010-05-15T13:34:00.002+01:00

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Im having a bit of a sabatical from painting

I know ......dont give up yer day job

however I maybe appearing in a bournmouth uni film production
as either a villain or a drunk

Im suitably qualified for both

Bob Dylan Subterranean Homesick Blues

2010-04-18T20:52:00.003+01:00

Still alive

2010-04-08T16:37:00.002+01:00

Cheers to my old mate Terry TBone Brennan and the lads at the Old Contemptibles

Bob Dylan Christmas in the Art

2009-12-28T21:27:00.001Z

Bob Dylan Mississippi

2009-09-19T20:41:00.003+01:00

havnt posted anything in ages hope you like this

Bob Dylan Gates of Eden

2009-01-28T20:17:00.001Z

to all Reuben Butler's mates at Kingsbury HI from DAD

happy 2009 to all my readers

2008-12-31T17:41:00.000Z

bobdylanpaint: Bob Dylan and the Cat

2008-12-28T20:03:00.000Z

http://jacbookishly.blogspot.com/2008/12/calliope-experiment-6.html

Bob Dylan and the Cat

2008-12-28T19:56:00.000Z

“what are you thinking about ?“ she murmured… he looked up abstractedly “mmmmm”?
“where are you?, your miles away”…..
he smiled “ I was thinking about Dad” she stopped what she was doing and listened to him, his Dad had died nearly 35 years before and he rarely talked about him.
“ Did I tell you about the time he kicked the cat across the kitchen”
“No”
“ He wasn’t a violent man, just frustrated and at the end of his tether, and the cat tripped him up”
“What happened?”
“the cat squealed but landed on his feet and ran away”
He went back to his paper and she looked out of the window.
Later that evening she came back into the house after shopping and found him sprawled on the settee, sobbing. She went into the kitchen and packed away the groceries. The phone rang, it was their daughter.
“ How’s Dad ?
“He’s fine” she lied.
Three years later the Israelis started bombing the Palestinians in the latest round of their never ending war.
“ Israeli jets bomb Gaza” bleated the Sunday Times. “Like they care” he thought “Rupert Murdoch probably has shares in the company that makes the F16’s”. He watched with feelings of complete impotence as the TV spewed forth more images of other peoples despairand made a mental note to stop buying the Times. He reached for the remote and switched to an old movie channel, he had decided to avoid thinking about things he could not change, and The Middle East, Rupert Murdoch and world peace all firmly fell into that category. However he could do something about how he was feeling, and he switched off the TV and turned on his computer, “Calliope’s Coffee House” was a blog he had just found and its author, Jacquie the Imp had posted a challenge to write 500 words about a picture of a cat. Jacqui’s book list hadn’t inspired him, but she had replied to his comments with an alacrity which surprised him. His own blog and the project he’d been on for the last year using Bob Dylan’s lyrics as a way of creating art was in need of a fresh impetus. The bold oil paintings of last year had become pen and wash illustrations of the Dylan oeuvre which was never his intention… “What are you thinking about?“ she murmured…
Three days later on a pile of rubble in Rafah a cat lazily licked at the dirt. He was quickly shooed away by the aid worker who was looking for survivors of the recent air raids. He scraped away the soil and brickwork to find a hand.
When they carried the corpse away the dead mans face was caught by an Al Jazeera news crew.
As he sipped his coffee he reached for the Times. He blinked as he looked at the front page photo. A corpse dragged from the rubble in Rafah stared up into the unthinking sky. It was his dead father.

Bob Dylan Just Like a Woman

2008-12-28T12:32:00.000Z

another page from my sketchbook.

I did say this blog is not a fanzine.

However I was showing my son how to draw faces in proportion and how to exaggerate certain features to make drawings more recognizable

so we have little bit dylan, some elizabeth taylor and jimmy durrante

should amuse feminist critics of the song

Alone

2008-12-20T17:13:00.000Z

He had lived in the city for most of his life. All his dreams had come from its streets and buildings. Yet, as he stood at the bottom of the escalator he realized he knew very few people. He watched as shoppers floated down before his eyes and spilled onto the concourse like hour glass sand. None of their faces struck a chord of recognition.

This fact was not that surprising. It was after all December the 6th and the city held a million people. He decided to conduct an experiment. He wanted to see how far he could take this melancholy thought. He decided to stand and observe the crowd till he recognized someone.
He was pushing sixty and apart from college years and spells working in other places, this city was his life. He had a family, a job, what passed for a social circle and enough self belief to know that if he died he would be missed. He groaned inwardly “this is my town goddamit”.
After ten vain minutes without success and weary from scanning the throng, he sighed. One or two people had glanced at him but without any flicker of recognition. Perhaps they thought he was a plain clothes cop looking for a suspect or maybe they saw through him and realized he was waiting for someone to save him.

He decided to lighten his load, after all a lot of these people were out of towners on a shopping spree, the shopping centre was close to the main railway station. He began making a few mental notes on the parade of other people’s lives. A young couple slipped by sporting matching hairdos, with little quiffs peeking over their foreheads. Did they get ready in matching his and hers mirrors, he couldn’t imagine his wife allowing such a self referential piece of “couple” exclusivity. An older woman with a strongly joweled face and long blond hair caught his eye. Did her features betoken a stronger personality? And did it echo somewhere in the further recesses of his memory? A face like hers would surely have left a trace and perhaps a few bruises he chuckled. Middle aged mothers who were obviously competing with teenage daughters, floated by in a flurry of eyeliner, they always amused him until he remembered the rough horseplay which had accompanied the pissing contests he fought with his own son.

How to end this self imposed task? His slightly obsessive nature wouldn’t let him just get on and forget it all. Yet release in the face of a friend just would not come. Had he been spirited away last night and transported to a doppelganger city on the flip side? Perhaps his idea of himself and his place in the world was inflated; perhaps he needed to get out more. He suddenly moved the goal posts, he would move on, not when he recognized someone, but when he saw a woman wearing a yellow dress. This arbitrary choice pleased his sense of surreal happenchance, and on face value he would be on his way in a couple of minutes. Yellow after all was a common colour and women still wore dresses. But hang on, the city was in the grip of a cold spell and the women were all wearing coats. Was he deliberately extending his self imposed sentence by setting an unmeetable get out clause? If yellow suddenly went out of fashion, if the women were all so wrapped up to cover even the tiniest piece of cadmium or buttercup, if the cold spell turned into arctic winter, as many climate change commentators were suggesting, he could die in his poorly polished clarkes size 10’s.

A woman appeared with the faintest glimmer of a yellow belt. He scurried away in relief. As he walked uptown towards the car park, he passed the German market which was in the main square. He saw a face from his past; it was a local politician he hadn’t seen in some years. After a brief conversation the man told him he had moved to Spain, and was just visiting for the holiday.

Bob Dylan

2008-12-19T22:11:00.000Z

Visions # 2

2008-12-18T21:36:00.000Z

Bob Dylan Rainy Day Women #12 & 35

2008-12-15T23:16:00.000Z

Bob Dylan Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues x 2

2008-12-10T13:45:00.000Z

Sweet Melinda

The peasants call her the goddess of gloom

She speaks good English

And she invites you up into her room

And you're so kind

And careful not to go to her too soon

And she takes your voice

And leaves you howling at the moon

Bob Dylan Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues

2008-12-09T16:57:00.000Z

Bob Dylan From a Buick 6

2008-12-02T11:56:00.000Z

Bob Dylan All Along the Watchtower

2008-11-30T10:29:00.000Z

since starting this project it has become evident that there is a veritable dylan industry out there and i guess i'm part of it. what does this say about me ? well, i dont feel myself to be an uncritial fan and altho' not many people have commented on my work i am an artist who is using dylan's work to explore my own feelings and observations about the world.

the world seems to be a pretty desperate condition at the moment. but desperate times do give the opportunity to bring change. can we assume this change will be easy or go in the direction we desire?, evidence seems to suggest not necessarily. this would therefore argue for a voluntarist prescription to try to precipitate change in the direction we deem to be best. clumsily put as it is this has been the approach of all activists in human history.

if we are passive then others will promote their solutions that conflict with our ideas. thus intellectual and political debate is justified.

einstein

2008-11-28T13:45:00.000Z

just finished watching einstein and eddington on bbc iplayer.

i cried when they met

i feel enstein is in someway related

but then i've been bent by the sun

on highway 61

Bob Dylan Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again

2008-11-28T08:28:00.000Z

i am sixty years old next april. i would rather like to mark the occasion by seeing bob dylan in concert. rumour has it he may be playing a big hall in berlin on my birthday. would it be too much to ask that he moves this gig and plays at a more intimate venue more suited to this special day?

if i'd had my wits about me when i was 12 years old i could have joined robert shelton at gerdes folk city in grenwich village and seen bob when he was starting out. instead i was too busy reading the hotspur and dreaming about ann jones who lived across the road.

if i'd been even more on the ball i could have gone to the newport folk festival in '65 and sat with all the other later day beats listening to bob play tambourine man, but instead i was struggling with the first page of das kapital, which had defeated harold wilson but not my sister chris.

so it was really remiss of me in '72 not to have hooked up with aj weberman and rumaged through bob's rubbish bin, looking for the holy grail. i was just too enthralled by driving a bus up and down the washwood heath rd and trying to get a glimpsed of that young woman who had bought me some chocolate.
by '84 when bob probably needed my help and advice i spurned him and his work completely, baby ruth has a lot to answer for.

in '97 ,when my mind wobbled bob did come to my aid when he put a paint
brush in my hand.
so in '09, BOB , i'll meet you in the albert hall in aston and you can jam for me with the notebenders. BOB I'M NOT GONNA ASK AGAIN

Bob Dylan Gates of Eden

2008-11-19T11:13:00.000Z

Bob Dylan High Water (for Charlie Patton)

2008-11-17T11:36:00.000Z

Bob Dylan Sugar Baby

2008-11-17T11:33:00.001Z

am i the only person on the planet who thinks that the economic crisis may have some positive consequences? for the last 10 years we have been berated for consuming too much, but now our leader's only response to the crisis seems to be "how can we restore demand to previous levels".
If we move into slump there is an opportunity to redistribute wealth and make the rich of the world live on less. history suggests that this process would be painful, so our leaders will avoid such a course of action and they will take whatever steps necessary to get Western economies back on the merry go round that we just dropped off

curfew gull

2008-10-20T20:09:00.000+01:00

Bob Dylan Gates Of Eden

2008-10-18T18:08:00.000+01:00

The lamppost stands with folded arms
Its iron claws attached
To curbs 'neath holes where babies wail
Though it shadows metal badge
All and all can only fallWith a crashing but meaningless blow
No sound ever comes from the Gates of Eden

Bob Dylan Beyond the horizon

2008-10-18T17:59:00.000+01:00

Beyond the horizon o'er the treacherous sea
I still can't believe that you've set aside your love for me
Beyond the horizon, 'neath crimson skies
In the soft light of morning
I'll follow you with my eyes
Through countries and kingdoms and temples of stone
Beyond the horizon right down to the bone

Bob Dylan Visions Of Johanna

2008-10-18T17:51:00.000+01:00

Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there's nothing, really nothing to turn off

Bob Dylan Million Miles

2008-10-18T17:40:00.000+01:00

Feel like talking to somebody but I just don't know who
Well, I'm tryin' to get closer but I'm still a million miles from you

Bob Dylan Ballad Of Hollis Brown

2008-10-18T17:33:00.000+01:00

Your grass it is turning black

There's no water in your well

Bob Dylan Absolutely Sweet Marie

2008-10-18T17:25:00.000+01:00

Well, I got the fever down in my pockets
The Persian drunkard, he follows me
Yes, I can take him to your house but I can't unlock it
You see, you forgot to leave me with the key
Oh, where are you tonight, sweet Marie?

Bob DylanThe Water Is Wide

2008-10-18T17:15:00.000+01:00

Build me a boat that can carry two

And both shall row my love and I.

Bob Dylan Odds And Ends

2008-10-18T17:08:00.000+01:00

"Odds and ends, odds and ends
Lost time is not found again"

Bob Dylan One Too Many Mornings

2008-10-17T19:48:00.000+01:00

A stunning portrait of a Morrocan village by my good friend Gwenn brought these lines to mind.

"An' the silent night will shatter
From the sounds inside my mind,
For I'm one too many mornings
And a thousand miles behind."

Bob Dylan Freewheelin'

2008-07-16T20:49:00.000+01:00

oil on canvas £150

Bob Dylan It's alright ma I'm only bleeding

2008-07-16T20:42:00.000+01:00

oil on canvas £100

Bob Dylan It takes a lot to laugh

2008-06-11T03:21:00.000+01:00

thanks bob you not only sing better than me but your paintings cost more than mine. I travelled on a train from bristol last saturday. I had the carriage to myself, late at night plunging through a dark land, at high speed . it felt very charged. and that sense of surrendering myself with only the carriage walls and the driver between me and oblivion. high speed and not seeing down the line is powerfully erotic. "if I die on top of the hill" ...............

Bob Dylan Motorpsycho Nightmare

2008-06-08T13:02:00.000+01:00

Bob Dylan Mississippi

2008-05-30T08:58:00.000+01:00

Bob Dylan Bob Dylan's Dream

2008-05-25T09:42:00.000+01:00

Bob Dylan Time out of Mind

2008-05-23T20:10:00.000+01:00

Bob Dylan Modern Times

2008-05-23T19:52:00.000+01:00

Bob Dylan Subterranean Homesick Blues

2008-05-22T20:44:00.000+01:00

great night with old spgs mates pat and pete last night. whilst ronaldo spluttered we muttered about the mash and other heroes. was i really a centre half in the team that won the vale trophy in 61? did pat really share a cig with attridge and other hoboes .did pete realy foor itchy green, and then get beaten to a pulp? ulyanov was a predictable no show but his spirit was hovering .

2008-05-18T14:29:00.000+01:00

my maternal grandad joe wilkes was a character. he was a foundling left on the steps of the bluecoat school in st philips square birmingham in the early 1880's. the circumstances of his birth were a mystery.

was he the result of an upstairs downstairs liason? mmm, am i related to the windsors... i hope not .

joe was sent to an orphanage in marston green and when he was twelve he was told he was going to be sent to australia, as part of a government policy to populate there and presumiably cut the cost of rearing him, brave joe ran away and spent 2 years living on the streets in birmingham untill he was taken in by the wilkes family in williams st ladywood.

he served in the boer war and the great war then inthe 20's and 30's made a living selling tips on race courses, the family lived from hand to mouth but if he had a good day on the horses the family shared his success. my dad saw him once walking up broad st followed by 3 railway porters carrying a barron of beef and crates of beer and fruit.

legend has it he could swear for 10 minutes without repeating himself, he was known as foul mouth wilkes. he died in 1940 the same year as my other grandad lev davidivotch bronstein (see pic)

Bob Dylan Love and Theft

2008-05-17T14:47:00.000+01:00

drink the sand

2008-05-11T11:13:00.000+01:00

blasted beach fed fickle hour glass

fissure fault revealed the deep

vitreous was my soul and hand weep

pon the fleeting edge of land

i began to squeeze the glass choke

angst dissolved my terrorflow

salt and sand a voice said let go

then did eye in awsome stand

not a word was said or gesture

not a deed could safety bring

open mouth my lung bled blister

i began to drink the sand