Stream of thought

I had an old book of Bob Dylan lyrics:

coffee stained,binding unhinged,scribbles in the margins,
and I took my brand new sharpest knife
sliced through the words,lines,chord changes-
melted paraffin wax in my copper saucepan
slowly brushing the glossy mixture over and over each fragment of text
building a waxen sheen whilst intoning ancient mantras
focused on breath and here and now
as distant gongs echoed through mossy caverns of memory
and folding the pages gently into the form of a small boat
soaking it in overproofed rum,gently setting it in a sizeable washtub full of seawater
and setting it aflame


Fin.