About Midnight - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
I'd hold your face and watch it like a b.mp3
I watch the gulls howling through the cl (2).mp3
let me tell you I never tell the truth w (1).mp3
o this weeping is all in your head grow .mp3
I watch the gulls howling through the cl (4).mp3
I'd hold your face and watch it like a b (1).mp3
what is meaner than death and what consu.mp3
I watch the gulls howling through the cl (1).mp3
let me tell you I never tell the truth w (2).mp3
what is meaner than death (1).mp3
I watch the gulls howling through the cl (3).mp3
Sleeve Notes
intimacy She is moving increasingly closer to my body In complete secrecy. She gives herself to everyone. She is always in love with them, clings to them and they Return her love. I am constantly constricted, day and night. Within her law and an improper sense of human relations She appears in my field of vision as if my presence is required. I trust an adjustment of the whole concern will be made So as to preclude the necessity of my proceeding to extremes. I am again a great invalid having been confined to my room this fortnight past on account of inflammation of the Chest and Windpipe. The toothache has at last subsided. Wakefulness seems linked to an obscure punitive aspect. I have no occasion to be whitewashed so to speak. Old Mallock at Pegu went away on sick leave to England With claims of 3000 rupees against him from the company & has just escaped court-martial. One Burmese girl No sooner got a new jacket from me than off she went to see her friends And never came back. Mallock’s lately in Calcutta sick or shamming. Lots of alligators in the river and a boar hunt in the creek As an unfortunate wild hog had got carried away by the tide & swam down opposite the village. The villagers bring in venison sometimes, deer as large as cows, of a mouse colour. I ate eggs the other day of the white heron. The shell was light blue and the white when cooked just like jelly. I’ve got a fowl house & a goat and a trump of a kid Fowls, ducks and little pigs soon. I ought to write her but it really can’t be done now. I am suspicious that she holds me in contempt somehow Or else has revised me as a figure of so little concern That mine will be a death on paper only. I watch the gulls howling through the clouds and the trees wild sway marking crazy time. These are strange thoughts, I confuse the dawn with dread and so clutch at straws all the time. Do you? What amazes me is how ancient everyone seems and how trite our repetitions and dramas. I've seen real suffering , the sort where everything collapses and there's no remedy and nothing else no shelter no roof no fire to warm the freezing blood no word that can calm the panic no colour to show the way back to beauty. so where are the gods going? Where did I go? Where did you go? Oh I know about your lovers and the way you like to keep me on as a kind of retainer. You do it because you do like me and you feel pity of sorts and sometimes you're bored and other times you actually believe you may be going mad and need a handrail. This is pretty commonplace. Why are you not more angry and dismissive? I would find it easier to cope with rage or that sort of disdain that makes you wonder how far away I am really from here. On the horizon line there are the hidden closer things. I have never held your hand not even one not even once. I have never even remained so close as to feel the skin of what you are or the book you are reading. I love it when you pivot towards me with a look that's like a flower opening. I find poetry can be like a kiss but let's be honest it isn't. Nor is it anything else. The way of life has become unbearably elsewhere and an abstraction listlessly grips me. I can sit for hours. I can watch how you have the great beasts that watch and how the howling creatures haunt you by the perimeter gate. I see the fear and the dangers and the wild shrieking malibu stork that is ripping at the soul's carcass. What space are you alive best in? Do you have the kind of dreams that tug at you in daylight? Is there always a dread walking just over your shoulder? Who do you see when you look out? Has there ever been a time when nothing troubled the days, when every feeling seemed to have the right balance and harmonised? When I walk in the shopping centre and watch the people in their desperation I wonder like we all do who are they and what do they need what do they really need and if they have that what else ? The scowls are everywhere and the hands reaching out. Who fucks who and what does it mean when we say anything at all? I hurl words to the ground. You said I should have thrown many many more and then I would have had as many battles. I like the way you swing your body like it eases itself between the issues of time and space. All that will remain of us is surely beyond us. I once saw you smile as if you were forbidding something. Perhaps one day you will smile again in the opposite way.o this weeping is all in your head grow up and out of it go see your doctor or have another drink or write down some words and let them star back at you. well they don't just stare they shout and tell me to fuck myself and it's funny how that seems to be the best response. I get that a lot. My body has its revenge all the time. When I said I had fallen a part i meant like Isis seeking the body parts of Osiris. Those ancient stories are the most modern eventually. It takes nerve to stand still when you know this is this and there's a better world elsewhere. This is what I think anyway. Would you do a bad thing to be happy? Would you cause suffering so that you could be happy? Well these are the calculations. I went to see the girl who walks with hands of fire. I watch her as the rain falls down. The road seems long and endless. In forty years there will be a reckoning of sorts but I'll be gone and let's think about this and ask: what is the point? I walk long walks in parks and the rain and there are the birds screaming through the air. Everything is frantic and the merciless women come and go with smiles and brightness that glows even n the dark. I see them sway like reeds and I shout into misery as I do the rounds. The way is always a circle. Then it becomes a line with a start and finish. Then obscure. then clear. Oh what is all this in the end if not just the climax of an epitaph that revels a crime against living. And it's my crime. I apint but the pictures just hide me some more. I write but the words turn into ash. I watched a film where the cranes came and came back when tragedy was everywhere but everyone was cheering and holding flowers. I find the world cruel and I am lost in it. Are there ways of finding out? Are the trees lonely? Am I more alone now with all these people abundantly around than I was living down a lane of oppressive empty fields. People are glass. I am not even here anymore. I close the door against the high winds and the slanting rain and howl to the dead fire in the hearth. A great circle of fear and then a night that never ends will come and all this wlll be swept away. I wonder if my little walks and adventures are just part of that darkness rising up to meet the dawn. I'm cold and need to worry about everything again and again. You just can't force reality to be real. Love to be loving. Time to hold it's terrible secret away a little longer. Oh melancholic. Oh sad. Oh endlessly, this terrible confusion forever and endless and now. I watch the gulls howling through the clouds and the trees wild sway marking crazy time. These are strange thoughts, I confuse the dawn with dread and so clutch at straws all the time. Do you? What amazes me is how ancient everyone seems and how trite our repetitions and dramas. I've seen real suffering , the sort where everything collapses and there's no remedy and nothing else no shelter no roof no fire to warm the freezing blood no word that can calm the panic no colour to show the way back to beauty. so where are the gods going? Where did I go? Where did you go? Oh I know about your lovers and the way you like to keep me on as a kind of retainer. You do it because you do like me and you feel pity of sorts and sometimes you're bored and other times you actually believe you may be going mad and need a handrail. This is pretty commonplace. Why are you not more angry and dismissive? I would find it easier to cope with rage or that sort of disdain that makes you wonder how far away I am really from here. On the horizon line there are the hidden closer things. I have never held your hand not even one not even once. I have never even remained so close as to feel the skin of what you are or the book you are reading. I love it when you pivot towards me with a look that's like a flower opening. I find poetry can be like a kiss but let's be honest it isn't. Nor is it anything else. The way of life has become unbearably elsewhere and an abstraction listlessly grips me. I can sit for hours. I can watch how you have the great beasts that watch and how the howling creatures haunt you by the perimeter gate. I see the fear and the dangers and the wild shrieking mailbu stork that is ripping at the soul's carcass. What space are you alive best in? Do you have the kind of dreams that tug at you in daylight? Is there always a dread walking just over your shoulder? Who do you see when you look out? Has there ever been a time when nothing troubled the days, when every feeling seemed to have the right balance and harmonised? When I walk in the shopping centre and watch the people in their desperation I wonder like we all do who are they and what do they need what do they really need and if they have that what else ? The scowls are everywhere and the hands reaching out. Who fucks who and what does it mean when we say anything at all? I hurl words to the ground. You said I should have thrown many many more and then I would have had as many battles. I like the way you swing your body like it eases itself between the issues of time and space. All that will remain of us is surely beyond us. I once saw you smile as if you were forbidding something. Perhaps one day you will smile again in the opposite way. what is meaner than death and what consumes us inevitably and how many battles of divine infidelity are we to fight? For fucks sake stop asking your damn fool questions. Somuch is missing and being missed? I like your condesation and the way you are ruthless. There are always epiphanies to be had later. When I indulge in secret movements I am confessing. It's in the plague and confusion of the senses that we might be able to speak to each other. You drink beer with a suddeness that is a contradiction to any sobriety of event. Your thoughts have the speed of birds. You wish things greater than the gift of mankind. Have you always been this intense? Well I drink too and bring other horrors to light amongst the guilt. I like milky coffee if I'm making it, black if others. It's not just to do with taste. I sometimes wonder if I like anyone really. Other times I think there's nothing but love. Most of the time I'm trying out thngs until they get lost or worn out. People aren't forever. Neither are ideas. neither are the times we find ourselves in. It's hard sometimes to be going in the right direction. I saw you lying through your teeth and laughed. What causes the world to end like this? I am merciless in my recognitions. There will be someone perhaps who wants to see things as they really are but let's be frank. noone really buys any of that anymore. Hope is just another form of lies. These are the times and those are the places and what I suggest is that you stay scattered and lost. The forlorn is how we are recognised. I'd hold your face and watch it like a bomb I'd drive over the cliff into the divine death of the raving sea. Your ruthlessness is a confession and your fragility just a way of finding the best angle to see why heaven is a torment. Who knows what this abyss is saying. Who knows whether the last time you fucked was really what it seemed. Who was that on the phone last night and how long did it take before you faded and needed more whiskies. The bottle smashed on the pavement round about midnight. There was a delirious air about us all. I was feeling beholden to all sorts of wicked nights previously entertained, gone, perished, but instructive. You were up ahead and in a fierce conversation. I was upside down in my skull like a bat. if we ever fought i wondered what tricks you'd try and play to beat me. And would I let it happen. By the time the rain had stopped I wasn't sure how we would survive the flood. It didn't take long for me to bring my tongue in line with a single doom line on the horizon of the conversation. There is always one there if you look. And the electricity was a shine that disappeared into fake ideals and abstractions. But we don't mind them and know they have their uses. Who felt forlorn and who felt hungry to test out limits? Well I saw the way you looked at chaos and accepted it as a willing comfort. I thought that was when your divinity was clear and if ever there had been a time to feel fear there it was. Right there. When you smiled I was emptiness. The night coughed like it had been outside too long and you saw how frail everything was, from the wall hangings and the door frame and the glasses clinking at the edge of time. When I left there were things that made no sense of anything I knew and they never would. I was fearless on the ride home and composed an ode to some hero. Sleep came like a sluggish hot beast. Are there good deaths? I composed a message but never sent it. Do you do that? I wonder if they're the ones that we ought to be reading. A hundred years from now there will be nothing left of us and yet that makes it even more important. But who is that screaming in my ear? And who is counting the hours? Days are where we live and I'm always on the brink.