Ode To The Blonde Dylan II

Character is what you are in the dark
Over where a spark would otherwise fade.
And now he thinks he can respect the perfect apple.
Not just gunpowder gushing from a stallion's skull.
Not no more.

Bumping the empty end inch of a record
Finding yourself
Clocked
Cleaned
By mortality.

Was it post when you sung it for the diehards
Swung low in the glum shroud of club light?
Was it post when you sung it in secrets?
Or more casual oppression of the middle-class texture.
Like ghostwriting the incombustible for the next new blonde Dylan.
Or some daft caption perfect for your disrepair and headstone.