Bad Radio Signal - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads.

Then the gold-haired bitch fell down from the sky to Illium’s hill. I took it as common knowledge that good comes from the mind, the mind from the soul. You take it from there. These stars are too regular to be our kind of Gods. The searing heat from Persia & Syria went to Rome and crossed worlds though barely touched them. Everything had a tragic tone with a newness of words that always went outside the truth. The carved dead by the shoreline had evil placed in their souls. There were horses and silent pursuits and in the heavy light there were two where before just one had been. There were melodies between dirt and sky and archons and women of ill-repute subtly playing. What I knew was that none of them even thought about virtue, easy or not. Serious people are separate from respectable types and live in a vortex where play absorbs obligatory actions. If I have to remind you later you’ll be sorry. Creation is contemplation that does nothing else and when you walk in here all silent and indistinct nothing is clearer. Another thing to remember is that once the chasm has opened there’s just you and me. Stop drawing on napkins and clear away the plates. A depth of silence swells up with a further heightening of style. You must learn. Let’s make it clear – we don’t look for what life actually is. That guy you were speaking to last night, out by the port, he’d encountered Schubert before Kant. His talk was a long line of interior threads moving straight onto something else - from nature to the soul, from this to the mind etc. Did you notice how his voice was quiet and always at the same level like spring running into a river? He bestowed his merits on Hades. Gossiped of false glory, Elysian fields, the mystery of Gemini, was unquenchable. He had been before all else a hunter. A hunter then was identical with being alive. You saw how he was that tense sort who knows the difference between alive and dead. The dead were what he fed his hounds. They were the simulacra. Gods aren’t a faith but evidence. I think he offered you meat as a gesture towards a fellow poet. You told me to believe nothing but just recognize. We never needed to name anything then and still don’t. The sun sets across the wide horizon, magnolia scents dissolve over the waters and each thought is destined to just eliminate itself. You were lost on your veranda with the soul that contains the world and a small cigar and wine in a delicate flute. The cosmos was fixed above you, and your invulnerability was a tortured dark root. What they made of your laconic history was little more than a tangle of stories. The fair colour of earth was covered by night and you knew there was another place and more meaning in the cold beauty from below. Remember the hot flares across thousands of years, a Sahara of remotest isolation. You see what the rest of us miss, weighed down by propositions. With you and on more than one occasion creation takes place effortlessly. I drove in silence but you went Egyptian. Some lessons are retraced, others are raptures repeated endlessly. Not all answers are instantaneous. Your state was recognized as serenity. By then I was drinking heavily and you had disowned everything and reached the end of the journey. Being an animal is as surprising as being everything. Some nights the universe opens up in the twinkling of an eye and flows with a fragrance of strawberries and acacia, ripe wheat, dust of the open roads and the endless sea. You were liquid and an irradiation of divinity proximate and coiled. I remember you saying how when as youthful Persephone you lay with a snake of a guard you dreamed was Zeus. What I noticed was how many strange things there are about you that so few see. Your first boy was lynched like a testy Orpheus. You crossed to Persia after and bedded the Magi who kill with their hands, reject statues and consider lying as the capital sin. You were born needing nothing - not coitus not love not death. Your thought eludes and your robes hang in many folds, vertical or undulating, and you take flight across a black Nile. Everything was dead to begin with. Then life brought a sovereignty of purpose and all the depravities. Why a serpent and not a calf of gold? You spent a long winter alone and built up a business selling statues to Ionia, Hyrcania and Scythia. And ceremonies. You dealt in gold and wore dead-headed carnations because they degenerated without archetypes. Your foundations rest on whoever you kill by accident. These were times where boars, lions, sphinxes and vast expanses veiled your works. You spent much time looking about. The classical is separated from the archaic. Olympians weren’t religious. Dionysus au contraire. You had a statue the size of your hand on the sill, as if the indomitable strangeness of outside was being met by the fierce gaze of pious homage. Mr Eliot reviled the epithet’s of Pound. You preferred an abbreviated appearance. Your varnish and patina, slender ankles and all that glamour escaped marriage with the tribe of men. You agreed that you were never looking to be useful. You knew there is no salvation because life is incurable. You passed through everything. That’s all that needs to be said. It was on the hill of blindness that Troy was built and fell, where poets founded the earth for just one time, where gods offered sacrifices and where something disappears forever. Impermanence is cruel and always metaphysical.