Mallarmé Or May Not - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

Today is what I leave out and walk along uncertain of what's happened. Did you happen? An escape is a kind of flight but I don't fly and don't escape. Mallarmé or may not. Hahaha. Gettit? The theme of glacier. The surrounding death. The search for ideals. The search for heaven with the dead children. Which is horror. My meanings are personal. Everyone I love bad things happen. Ahhh. I'll write against the sky, and there's whiteness against the blackness and blackness against the whiteness. Can we be infinite? Can we never understand anything? Authors don't die but I'm dying. Answer. Had the past destroyed us? Can we be more than ourselves? Despair. Sterile. Trapped. Never going to go anywhere. Forever. Blocked. When will the sign be ever less terrifying. My clothese are scorn. Yours? Mine? Death's? Mallarmé may and may not and can I get rid of what hasn't happened? Or is our sign still in flight? And can my virgin purity come back? And am I always sad and frozen? Mallarmé may and may not and can I get rid of what hasn't happened? Or is our sign still in flight? And can my virgin purity come back? And am I always sad and frozen? I drink by myself. At the next table there's the absence. Does art sterilise me? Would I invite you to my terrible corner? Would you drink absinthe or whisky with me? Is there another way? Is this song an ice sculpture. Are you my crystal girl? You could have been my perfect life? But never in my life did I think the rescue possible. Mallarmé may and may not and can I get rid of what hasn't happened? Or is our sign still in flight? And can my virgin purity come back? And am I always sad and frozen? I ruin the blankness of your page. I didn't want to do that. Really? I almost didn't want that. ha. Who is that at the other table, the group hunched in their laughing? I know I existed once. I lost many dear things. A bar is the most poignant place when you're frozen. What should I do? Mallarmé may and may not and can I get rid of what hasn't happened? Or is our sign still in flight? And can my virgin purity come back? And am I always sad and frozen? Mallarmé may and may not and can I get rid of what hasn't happened? Or is our sign still in flight? And can my virgin purity come back? And am I always sad and frozen? I am more abstract these days. There's hardly flesh on my flesh. The yellow lights dim, and escape routes darken. In a way forget biography. Know nothing and forget. I came from somewhere and in some way. So did you. humiliate my lips. Please humble them with yours. You don't make poetry with ideas but with words. Mallarmé may and may not and can I get rid of what hasn't happened? Or is our sign still in flight? And can my virgin purity come back? And am I always sad and frozen? Everyone has a version of Golgotha. There's nothing you can do about it. Do you ever wonder what might have been? Like in Eyes Wide Shut. Get real. I'm wanting to take you to the still point, the harmony of the universe. And dance. Just dance gal. The bliss is a choreography. The centre of a wheel doesn't move. Come to the dance and neither move nor decline just bliss you salvation, bliss your salvation . Or we'll find our disaffection. Lucidity comes in the first light of dawn. It's there you see the sequence. But when it's neither dark nor light there's no way we can be pure. I want to make the way through the dark and find the essential. Cleanse your affection from the temporal. I'm not full nor empty, I'm looking around. You? Come to the dance and neither move nor decline just bliss you salvation, bliss your salvation . Or we'll find our disaffection. Come to the dance and neither move nor decline just bliss you salvation, bliss your salvation. Or we'll find our disaffection. I hate the lung of the towns. The torpid lights and the gloomy hills over the northern line. And the Piccadilly. And the Central. And the burnt spot where you talk to ancestors with tears on your mortal cheeks. Your extended distraught. Your fast walk up to Tufnell Park or the flesh, fur etc of the time. Loosened paines and wind blows like a silent motto. What do you hear and your humility seems endless, like we're living under the sea or under the hill . Come to the dance and neither move nor decline just bliss you salvation, bliss your salvation . Or we'll find our disaffection. Come to the dance and neither move nor decline just bliss you salvation, bliss your salvation . Or we'll find our disaffection. So who is in the dark? Who is in the road? Those vacant eyes of the old man by the Sainsbury's which rule your heart and cool your ardour. Everything's incarnate. You're inviting solitude and its stillness turns you. Back you go and push coins into his palm like a wounded surgeon. And then scuttle away like a crab on the wild shoreline. The wildest shoreline. Like a little crab there. Come to the dance and neither move nor decline just bliss you salvation, bliss your salvation . Or we'll find our disaffection. I said be still my distance is being rolled away. The underground tube is another way of waiting for the silence. Mind the gap. Winter lightening, wild strawberries, give me a drink and forget arriving. I said be still my distance is being rolled away. The underground tube is another way of waiting for the silence. Mind the gap. Winter lightening, wild strawberries, give me a drink and forget arriving. Entice my lack of interest. Corrupt my invigorations. Burn the dictionary in your steadfast pocket. Mallarmé cleans us with his round silences. There's a willow tree out the window and it's weeping how it's weeping. And the sky is falling down, it's falling down. And the sound of the traffic is a quartet and abstracts the earth, it abstracts the earth. I said ‘be still my distance is being rolled away.’ The underground tube is another way of waiting for the silence. Mind the gap. Winter lightening, wild strawberries, give me a drink and forget arriving. Coming to the crossroads is a melancholy feeling babe. Coming to the crossroads is a melancholy feeling babe. I have a body buried somewhere near these times and its wailing in the night. I have a body buried somewhere here and boy how its wailing to the night. I said ‘be still, my distance is being rolled away.’ The underground tube is another way of waiting for the silence. Mind the gap. Winter lightening, wild strawberries, give me a drink and forget arriving. My flights are all boarded and explore the skies like time. My flights are all boarded and explore the skies in time. Your mind's like exile and a returning babe . Your mind's like an exile and a returning babe. Come catch heaven in whatever gets you mystical Come catch heaven in whatever gets you mystical Read Spanish mystics and watch your Jissoji babe Read Spanish mystics and watch your Jissoji babe. I said ‘be still, my distance is being rolled away.’ The underground tube is another way of waiting for the silence. Mind the gap. Winter lightening, wild strawberries, give me a drink and forget arriving. I said ‘be still, my distance is being rolled away.’ The underground tube is another way of waiting for the silence. Mind the gap. Winter lightening, wild strawberries, give me a drink and forget arriving. What is happening is so far away What is happening is like a thousand years gone What's happening is all across the universe And it's going to be larger and larger than life. What happened was as underwater as an eel And as blind as a pebble on the beach of the shoreline As like the legend of whoever came before wars and burials And the three hopeless nights spent dreaming of the pillow where her head rests. What's coming will be the quick of the earth burning fire What's coming is the hunt and the air and the loss What's coming is the source and the aftermath where the bats flow round and round And the birdsong holds itself behind the dark trees For we are the ones who are hiding and hidden We are the roads for the tomcat and the roving fox bitch We are the streams under moonlight in the old parks In the roads splitting the towers and shapes of the cities night. yea, For we are the ones who are hiding and hidden We are the roads for the tomcat and the roving fox bitch We are the streams under moonlight in the old parks In the roads splitting the towers and shapes of the cities night. I'm the starling on the rooftop wolf whistling time I'm the dog on its leash looking to rape the seconds I'm the black crow and the magpie and the thrushes sleek on the lawn And a certain measure of silence that deepens the trees. And you're the years that have come and gone on horseback And the pity by the orgy and hosannah in the wild parties And the tiny ivory ornament that refuses its place And the tears of the world as it fucks itself up. For we are the ones who are hiding and hidden We are the roads for the tomcat and the roving fox bitch We are the streams under moonlight in the old parks In the roads splitting the towers and shapes of the cities night. And how the will devours itself some nights And other times untethered it flies to the moon How the poise and the legs shroud the mystery of sex with longing And longing's a genius of trained brats and fury. For we are the ones who are hiding and hidden. We are the roads for the tomcat and the roving fox bitch We are the streams under moonlight in the old parks In the roads splitting the towers and shapes of the cities night. For we are the ones who are hiding and hidden. There's an unbearable sweetness that bursts into my chest and the sob rises and breaks on my hearts rock. Its a matter of bursting through the pain. I'm what can't find words, that hesitates and is necessary a silence that interrupts breathing. I might have something to come, inscribed as points. Or I might be just a grinding sub plot. A kind of breakdown. There's a crumbling of the graphic facade. There's a moment when I'm inanimate and hardly a force, more an emotion that got stirred up by the underground station, or by the bar, or by the inanimate mark, or under the Chinese chip shop, or a work of mourning, or a lost fortune, or a climax or a co-written veil. Wow. You're a kind of silkworm. A closed envelope containing silent black seeds. Or berries. Look at it closely. You're drawn as much as written, sung as much as hushed. Your no portrait but a theme out of living punctuation and breath. The leaves are golden and most glorious as they die. Everything is more complicated than it seems. I guess we give ourselves an existence. We give oneself an existence and become lodgers involved in making that existence point live. I resemble that which floats between us. You can walk between the traffic snarl-up, and the bar crowd, and where you sit, in the veiled corner, with a laptop and a beer and a point of non-view. It’s around this you execute your veils, you execute everything in your own silence and what form of life speaks? What form of life speaks? All this is about Mallarmé’s shipwreck, death first, life next, a chancy life. That's all I know. And it's hardly knowing. It's more just a way to encounter what survives us. And what survives us is love, they say. What survives us is love. Hmm. I resemble that which floats between us. You can walk between the traffic snarl-up, and the bar crowd, and where you sit, in the veiled corner, with a laptop and a beer and a point of non-view. It’s around this you execute your veils, you execute everything in your own silence and what form of life speaks? What form of life speaks? All this is about Mallarmé’s shipwreck, death first, life next, a chancy life. That's all I know. And it's hardly knowing. It's more just a way to encounter what survives us. And what survives us is love, they say. What survives us is love. Hmm. So what's this about explicit considerations and what about the film Poetry you showed ? Did you carry things within you for all your life? Will you become an unwritten book? Will you be divisible and designated a poem? Or poem? What have you in common with your physical sensations? You only get what you deserve I guess. There's a cardiac certainty. There's a cardiac certainty. You’re my cardiac certainty. And there's nothing certain. More an ellipsis. Are you any more than this poem then? Are you any more than this poem then? What will become will be waiting like tears behind the pain and force in another time. Held in suspense, a sob and palpitation. The poem between your breasts. Here comes the bus and I appreciate sincerity. I am trying hard to keep you out of the line of fire. My country's the road for dried straw souls and mosaics on a wall, your heart that gyre gathering me into eternity and the neglected window seat. Where are we going? Byzantium. This is the darkest hour tumbling across Oxford Street like we're in a kennel, people like hunched zombies and nightingales. Do you have favourite porn stars? Well do you? That's one of those unfilmable thoughts you get when you're cold and automatic. Grind hard come on girl let's grind heaven... Adios honey, yea, adios honey, and shoot me up. Every one is a village and I'm reading Laforgue whose one of those poets who is a gang. I have a torch logo in hand and you write the entire decade inside a sort of fucked situation comedy. Some sly shrewd fox is a big deal, others just, you know, foxy. Grind hard come on girl let's grind heaven... Adios honey, yea, adios honey, and shoot me up. Some ways of talking mean more than disgraced tunescripts make out. There are worlds of pure speculation. What might have been and what has been is just speculation. I never convinced you of our mortality. You already knew that. And the moods more a sarcastic witticism, and your alert to everything unredeemable. Is sympathetic too strong? Ha Grind hard come on girl let's grind heaven... Adios honey, yea, adios honey, and shoot me up. There's dust on your roseleaves, there's a crime picture on your screen. There's a juvenile delinquent . There's Cagney and Bogart and Garfield and Bette Davies and you'd have known the future. You would always have known that. Grind hard come on girl let's grind heaven... Adios honey, yea, adios honey, and shoot me up. There are decades of life. There are horse shoe crabs. They've been here for a long long time. We are prehistoric with them. We've got a riddle. I'm a local combination. I don't buy Hegel. I don't like intimations of immortality, which is a different issue. Will we fade away? Well, I'm doing that, but resisting it. Grind hard come on girl let's grind heaven... Adios honey, yea, adios honey, and shoot me up. More than mere ashes stack up in my open mouth. I bewail the burnt out morticians vision. I am the condition of someone's damnation. Do you want it? This is a distraction by distraction by distraction. I'm a blatant act of highway robbery. On a bus. At three a.m. I'm cold as a roach and have lost the role I wanted all along. Grind hard come on girl let's grind heaven... Adios honey, yea, adios honey, and shoot me up.