Idols - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

Nastagio degli Onesti Being young is no achievement. Being a prisoner of the Sienese is a different kind of failure. There are some who envy. Others stay embarrassed because they don’t know. I wake up in fear when it’s hardly time. I never once received a commission. Girls who stay at home are vicious. One bitch in Ryazan was like a horse, said she hated booklovers , libraries and was wary. She was a perilous one. I demand reinforcements. She said she was defending papa. A coughing, sick, dirty, hungry cunt. Pampered and ugly. The lynx in the night is only half beast. Like a Christ child with Ducciesque up-to-dateness. Show me even one worthy son or daughter. Putin’s daughter should murder him. Then he could be pitied. This thought comes with the rhythmic sway of the expressive, a mannerism of wolf or wild boar. Russians, Tartars, Germans, Jews are all the same and are destined to hang in a downward curve. There are distinct circumstances leading to this incarceration. Look at the hands no longer pressed flat across the beam but allowed to hang limp. Piglets scream rape and chickens fluster the dying mode. Individual narratives are found on the aprons of frescos and are like the butter with the pot of honey. They presage. Stop your fever. Buckle your uniform to an entire spaciousness. They killed a jew on account of his violin. I slept until evening. It was a matter of stopping short. I’m afraid to live with any sort of joyous amenability. Nothing’s down to earth. I am compounded. When summer came and the parades began that sense of the numinous which searching obscures also started. There are the specters from the Story of Nastagio degli Onesti – a knight feeding her torn heart to his raving dogs, the woodland’s sheer flesh, the wandering lover amazed by the horror of tenderness abandoned - and they are truly blessed and burn out the eyes. What’s unknown is a background to all we wanted to do. The pomegranate bleeds all our passions. Lilies swoon towards a dying western sun. Flee Ravenna before it’s ghost stories devour us. Every sentence forms a kind of grid. Why didn’t you agree to coming on the picnic? The rose bloomed as you turned the corner. A sweeter air would have been less artistic. Yours is a virile attraction, stark in your white cloth, your footsteps and your rhetoric, arithmetic, music, astronomy, logic, geometry and grammar. And yours are the intimacies of the dipped quill too. Your writing magnifies the soul. I think you were first seen in the fifteenth century, eating blood cherries, tender plums, figs of resurrection, in a myrtle grove’s shade. If we ever meet again I’ll tear out your centre with my bare hands. Or testify to your alphabets.