Digging at Sunset - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

The reproach that commends celestial bodies It’s no use being naturally just a character. No use trying to bribe your inclinations. Your private house initiated rites that were nothing but despicable. You had your scruples and so did they. But neither could resign themselves to being alone. Were you ever trying to be pure? Mortal? Legal? I noticed you in perfect wakefulness, staring ahead through the windscreen, his arm crooked round your shoulders, enough to arc its wing to a nocturnal vice. Your thoughts were larval as you seethed through the souks, ports, buildings and sacred precincts by daytime. And in those small eternities of night by the fountains and muck-baked sanctuaries you might have been summarizing words of justification. Every dance and every song is sacred in this axiom. Life’s what the priests rush towards and you fiercely deride. What cynicism was it that set all to order and banned change? Your immutable definitions were dark and like hymnals. The city was in heat. Nymphs and rivers and palm trees waved to the tragedies passing by as if deities. When you’re writing the dramas of women you partook of those manners in your own body. Wiggled your fat ass to Phaedra. Got to the nightclub and played insidious and horny. Everything’s the same as it ever was. Poets can’t decide what’s good or bad. You’re the harbinger of my cries. Don’t they know you once sold vegetables in the market square and scourged families? That was a thousand years ago. Wondrous things contaminate the alters with blood, secrets and the a priori. What you reported isn’t true. This is how ordinary life rolls on. I don’t dare eat the flesh of your oxen. I take my own car. I never saw anyone less sorry than you. I guess that’s the pervading membrane of the drama. You’re described by those in the know as the law or unutterable. I stayed on too long. The bonds of your constitution is Bacall with Bogart, no future, no past, light and free destiny and the portion that’s someone else’s fate. Sons died. Daughters fled knowing the difference between necessity and the good. You took serious care of everything. Fishes and beasts with wings ate each other. You intervened with justice. You’re both revocable and superimposed. You had no intention of coexisting with the others. Pity was never due to the hungry or lost before you saw virtue in something that fell on everyone. The tough clarity of your rivals was met with glass, law, cravings transcended & sequenced. I saw you with the pale sophist as if you’d fished him in open sea with a hook. You were ever a manhunter in ocean, city or country. You sipped your tequilas like a tiger sheltered under a ravine’s overhanging metaphor. Your silk gowns hung like syllogisms or cobwebs. Your poetry was there in the way the night’s breeze rocked gently like a small proof out the logician’s moon and everything a thousand miles away, and sacred, and strange, and visionary, and erotic under one single word. When I asked you never replied.