Biscuits In The Rain - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

The line ‘she struck his head with an axe’ is completely omitted except by way of a reference, oblique at best, to the presence of a ‘bitch of gold’ who may loosely be held to be a contempt and a cur both.

3,673 faces and cocks erased.

And this last section, (perhaps Hermes): ‘Your pointy beard and hard on – do you smoke a pipe? You were rowdy, shaved and then your cock cut off which went to the secrets. In the spring morning all prosthetic activities took on the semblance of reality. You always did like the rule of tragedy. But seriously, your mind was on other things even then wasn’t it? Your cold blood scandalized everyone and there were curses under the sun. Knock it off. Thirteen miles was not far, and no one else could interpret. Why didn’t you stop the sex favours? Even after so many were punished by death and exile all you really talked about were lyrical digressions and mythical stereoscopy. Yours is an unlikely god, one where killing reveals the end of meanings. Massacre is the only hermeneutics here. Its all a death without trial.’a dutch vase Flowers in moonlight and the living are dying and all have needs. I say Buddha is not the same Indian as Chinese. And in exchange what profits the officials and mediators but free words, no decency, no rules and too few schools? Neat you are, like a crocodile jaw. Your top is big and I am suited to it. My mind is on the rut. I would furrow all posterity and look for learning to abbreviate settled distinctions. Completeness fortified the town walls and ran conversations at market on cattle, hens, funerals and wives though we moved about bored and silly. Are you with good friends or just looking for a tone that fits your eastern head? Do you ever recall the strange ones down by the river born elsewhere in thunder and rain? Time is present somewhere else too, in ash and fur and flesh and shit. Your questions redeem strange abstractions and worse - speculations. Your unsure tread is this, a mindful haze of disturbances. Dust on dead roses - in the strange dark inhabited with stuffed birds and their wicked glass eyes that are waiting for nothing - is the dust of nothing lifting up. Terror is dignified here but what vibrates are distant calls from deep inside our endless endless endless dread. The sky’s an unhealthy gloom, high frozen constellations and the scent primrose. And the edges out of sunlight are where your glittering skull is emblematic and then you were gone in smokefall and disaffection. A solitude that deprives the senses of vanity recruits fancy too. Why abstain when soon all is past and no longing remains? The bell rings, candle-light flies, both across the chilling field. A time goes on and will end all we have been. We are already beneath the sea. Beneath the hill. Our children will have to bury themselves, dispossessed and without softening grandeur. Our animations are gross and stupid. Another plague befalls and enters the city by way of the farthest unsupposed probability.