I saw the best minds of my generation employed with sanity,
well-fed, dragging themselves through grevillea streets
looking for the latest Bob, anti-hipsters turning the
long-playing record connection to the starry dynamo
machinery of their bungalow, who wide-eyed and hi there
sat up soaking in superelectical Blonde on Blonde, who
bared their brains to Bob’s nasal references staggering
drawled out ironies, who stayed up all night October in
submarine light of stale Victoria Bitter and Drum
roll-your-owns, listening to the crack of doom on their
personal hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously
hours and had never even seen the Brooklyn Bridge.
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