Crime - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
looking out for one another.mp3
Sleeve Notes
A Gnostic error ‘The easy altitude of celebrity where there is no nature nor reality beyond a disdain of formidable emotions.’ Pauline Metternich is my ideal: top-boots, whip and pipe, travel going half-way around the table. She bores you to death. They all do. The depths of their throats are inaudible and you never listen to answers once you’ve posed your questions. Days here reek of period pieces. Physiques have the unbecoming air of a Nadar balloon. I’d seen the Goncourt brothers in Great Ormond Street hospital. You adopted my mother’s maiden name. Girls lie about a new North African campaign and take things on their backs from there. At times I prefer to be known as the mistress of the Duc d’Aumale. I have fond memories of tender chords being broken. Sometimes being highly finished beats talent. I raised a generation to a degree below zero. Shaded balconies, stark sierras, the archaic Pyrenees, windmills and absence are my concerns by the end of the year. You gambled like hell. Legends need more than design. You told me to purify and renounce violence then perished at sea both criminal and nocturnal. There is nothing infinite in your traces. Tragedy is woman’s stuff. You carry your mysteries in your own way. What overlaps with the high intensity of rose, crocus, violet, instinct? These days the best live in an atmosphere of public terrorism and siege. You called mine a ‘lyrical digression.’ I was aiming to become a new Helen. I expose moments and seem strange and disconcerting from the start. We’re boxed in. Bedroom lunges at my age are haunted forms of arrogance. I’m working from notes and outrun my technique. Massacres anchor meanings in a way invisible worlds can’t. But thought gets lost. That’s why your persistent sadism needs out of tune comedy. It drowns out. I’ll see you soon.