Blue - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

In a walled garden These houses are algebras of lime and geranium across the square of the unknown. The dogs own the subdivisions of their own yelps. It’s a technique. In the sun that bakes walkways our scripts curl toward legal heirs and vice Versa. These slow walks are arranged according to the chapters and problems Of inheritance law and shares. This is the business of suburbs and cities and roots. Boeing and Emirates and Luftwaffe measure the skies in continuous lines Or discontinuous numbers. They know where the parallel stripes intersect at the curved infinite. Four doors down you clutched your Euclid and knew your intelligence depended on it. Your astronomy betted on Theodosius. In the early dawn shadows held the souls of the dead in planes and sections of geometry. All that night you lay alone as a remarkable mechanical contrivance. Your proofs were both difficult and divided your enclosures. You pretended you missed my wink and similar things. The sparrow smears blood on its breast. A hero lies Astonished and killed in your bed. The scandal resisted its own optics. There’s a reason why rays and cones and errors explain the way things far away seem small. The moon at different latitudes appears and the eyes of moths gorge On lights of the new moon and the occurrence of eclipses. These are mysteries That we know about yet are still retrograde and held in a dream. The fierce falcon knows the motion of a given star without astrolabes. The small spheres drawn on your long arm, neck, breasts, belly, thigh establish basic principles and different motions. Autumn will finally abridge summer. Winter takes you to a Jew in Sicily skilled in math and astrology. Your disappointment was your Promise. Such a picture is universal. Abstraction continues to progress. You hover like brinkmanship. It’s a veil of essences or judgments. You have a fierce stride. Two kings were obliged to wait for you. You knew the great great great grandson of Louis the Debonnaire. You never carried him presents nor received any greatness from him. You talked about a right of redemption. Orleans and Paris are just disco. The whole thing is reduced to two events; one on the Seine the other the Loire. This is what you called ‘bad success.’ You designed partitions between and showed no preference for younger brothers. The peregrine flies lonely as a grey collateral to the dawn. The reeds whisper permissions. The low land slinks out of grey districts of mist and solemn water. Nature is a ceremony. I doubt you were really more comfortable in the climate of Italy than of the North. Old men there have considerable strength and women over fifty still bear children. Your disorders are holy. Dynasties, human activities and all events come to you. You placed your hopes in Ulpian who forbade marriage to disorderly women, actors and those condemned to public sentence. These are dark interiors. They yield only small degrees to light. Analogical reasoning is necessary and concerns things that are certain by nature. You studied irrigation, proper treatments, improvements of the soil, observed the rightest season. You considered plants from the point of view of planting, cultivation, properties, spirituality, stars and the great heavens. They thought it was a sorcery. You studied the Nabataean scholars of the Greeks. You sat up in the late hours with tallow candles studying the order of things. You had no time for heretics. In the night souls crossed the desert as talismans of celestial matters. In your last years What did you see in a comb, in flakes of wool, in the spathe of a palm, buried in the well of Dharwan? You spat and became symbolic. You tied a knot over the symbol. There are evil names. Is yours one? Under garments of leather did you curse magic under your breath. I saw you one evening under the great black hill Gesture at the bellies of your goats and their guts fell from their bellies into the ground. When someone looks for your heart they can’t find it in its inner parts. Why did you point to a pomegranate that time? And when they opened it up there were no seeds? You walk along ledges and tightropes without corporeal cause. Your mind is a particular deed. The eye is a natural gift and envious. The rumour was that you killed by means of a miraculous act. But if you killed with an evil eye then it was beyond your control. I wrote letters in those days comprising all the secrets. Secrets are alive in created things. That old man searched bones, feathers, hair, eggs, excrement and minerals. Sublimation and distillation calcify elixirs. You read everything as puzzles and despise gold and silver. Your hands are better than pestles and mullers and similar things. I am brazen and meltable it is true. You had tin, copper and lead ready for purposes of mystification. Secrets and puzzles prove yours is not just a natural craft. I never knew whether your soul was wicked. When are you uneasy now? You, whose passion was to command, whose ambition was to conquer, whose commencement and progress were one continued usurpation, had constantly affairs of the greatest weight upon your hands and enemies conspiring against you and you against your enemies. You are obliged to be heroically courageous and consummately prudent. Were you animated just by a love of glory? You were always a faylasuf. And abstract. And complete. I glimpsed you drinking black coffee on a veranda once, a small cigar and eternal pain smoking into the lush trees beyond. And there was an unequivocal existence, and the sea, a myna bird and a dove. And the outside world without senate or consul, generals or executives. You were never more divine. The frauds of time and law and power were lost to your lofty inexpressible joy. The music you heard was sufi. You returned before hindrances and disturbances. You wear out the pettiness of life and hold its account. The lime tree casts dark shadows. The rich soil cultivates resurrections. Stay alone. You remain safe from all pernicious aspects.