Find Your Way - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
Sleeve Notes
I won't mock triumphs over hell and death I have the poison of Caesar's crown and breath Inch by inch a lame philosophy creeps in And weaves my winding sheet and brings endless night and the eye born and perishing at night and where should I dwell, what realm is sight My how it's like a force this right and wrong power into will and will an appetite and the wolf has energies and is strong But an eagle might kill the wolf as greater might I am covered pole to pole with a clutching soul and chance is a bloody wrath and a menace and cold Colder than the most distant planet and a custom without lines of order nor immanence. What comes? A fixture in degrees like a ladder against a wall Age, sceptres, laurels, untuned strings and a fall. My how it's like a force this right and wrong power into will and will an appetite and the wolf has energies and is strong But an eagle might kill the wolf as greater might The steady hour and the great clear pity the fear and spilled tears are all there clearly. This is a scene from the dark wells tainted By their depths and secrets and fated. I was whoever was left behind in forlorn thunder Dim grey shadow of your broken winter under the wall and the lateness and the end of day You no longer see this spectre have no words to say My how it's like a force this right and wrong power into will and will an appetite and the wolf has energies and is strong But an eagle might kill the wolf as greater might past existence is nothing to me nor future but now, now is holy, and wanderings and all this, this here is what I hold most dear. I have been done and undone and will be again and only a keeper might see something that once was or will be. What is the need for time in this, the great solitudes are gone or coming or maybe there's just your bright hair and faraway waves faraway lights faraway iris rain and there's nothing dull, nothing at all. I am astonished by a chasmal beauty and laughter and a pouting smudge of anger sometimes, and then its steady air and heights. Everything is a person, everything and everywhere. What is achievement but a person, buckled to a billion suns and dooms and shines. What is the vermillion gash and a certain slant of light in the winter but a person. What is that internal scar that nothing teaches and is despair if not a person. And what is distance on the look of death, or innocence in those sand grains and wildflowers and infinities, eternities, and ruined states, prisons, dovecots, fibres of the brain, a wounded skylark, the wolf howl and the eagle's stoop, the lamb and forgiveness, the bats and its disbelieving brain, the beloved wren and goldcrest's lust, and the bower and the caterpillar, and the gnat between summer to winter tongues, envy, jealous honey, art, toadstools and truths bad intent and all joy and woe if not a person? Tears and brightness, delights in rage and shores beaten to rags, I have this mocking faith and teach nothing to no one. Save she who is my reason's fruit, strong as the smallest inch and mile. Sun and moon, she is all that weaves them. Wears them as a smock. A delicate soul born and perished in a day. That is who and when and how we are. There is violence here, in the heart and its black soot. You will know this and see how in terror we have begun to be chased by its rowdy forms, scuttling like ugly crabs across the wintry shoreline, waves beating down in granite colours and feverish. We shall all die. We have all burst through skeins of blood and filth to scream into air and bear our birthings like unbridled sound. Invincible syllables and guttural, the skull echoes just this monument of noise again and again until death. What do week seek? Eyes. So we might peer out through the terrifying gloom. But there is too little light and all is revenge or rape or savage slaughterings under moonlight that is the pale hide of some great bestial shape. Dare we ask for mercy? It risks much to even contemplate that. Stay clutching the grass and smelling the cack mud. What time is it? I lag behind my legs. Stronger than life and death is me coming risen or fallen, matter don't matter, my version, testimony, bloody and bleeding out. Remember when I stood outside by your wall. It was a spectre doing the real thing, a colossal demon to protect and develop the darkness surrounding you, hurting you, I bring all my nooks and crannies, all my animals, birds, bloody slabs of nature, the dark cliffs of steep woods and winter sun, I brought my birth and death by these shapes into my underneath brain and dragged them all there, into the night, an hour, and stood seeing off the demons, in the cold, A sentinel, your sentinel , that's all it was, a way of protecting you by magical thought, skinning the night, maiming and turning myself into the preying creatures, perfect, a killer of malevolence, the face jammed against the gullet of the troubled mind, shrunk and aggressive and impassive. I stood to see you safe. Monstrous and rare. I too saw Hughes' fox. I dreamt the bleeding head, the prophecy and warning, the poem. This I am, burning pages. Burning star, the near darkness of loneliness, entering it, cold, delicate like a snow and a mind. What ticks is more than a clock, more than time. This is primitive. There are worlds and ours just one, maybe. And howl into the boughs of the trees, their dangerous myths. I hang there even now, though invisible and dying. a hundred fold learn how you are here and your way. Pass your hand where my brain leaves a footprint and the blood is contracted. So many misled us. Where are my gods and there is a satellite and is always over what hurts. Life has small pities and large ones. Immortal deeps and fires burn, wings seize us and throw us somersaulting through the dread hammer airs. Terrors grasps us. Who is smiling and how? How are our forests kiltered like this. Keats travels realms of gold and sees things. Ha. I have nothing pure or serene like a planet comes fresh and pacific and wild from a peak. Vast stone feelings sink in and are the shattered remains of red passions now lifeless and mocking. Who gets fed? Who looks on without despair. Will anything remain? What stretches far away? Something curves like a wave, of water, of sand, and the coming of the hosts filling the wells. Floods loosen us and lift seas. This is where the clouds form and go mad. Goblins and spirits naked by the naked man and woman. Food and fear and injured years go on, keep on, and will be endured. Whips are thoughts and befall. My marrow is an owl that silent souls the woods with seed and dead mice. Stars are at bloodied war. The next come snapping punks and panthers. Wilderness, ghosts, ten leagues there is the end of the world under a dog star. The moon is what our dirty earth needs, injured we are. Well well. Long tongues, thighs as pale as thoughts. Who came through and through. We look to slay... and moan a wrath and buds freeze. This is a perched ground. Who is drawn nearer through greater eyes, creeping up close, coming to the epitaphs of what falls away. We tread on the ground and are rare. Comparisons are all false. The highest stair, the clasped pain is yours. Fugitives are what are weaved. And grief is like the soul leaving. What deft way can we find. Shaking and turning something compels my imagination, many hours, many days, and should have been lost without repose. I see her washing . I doubt the likelihood of half turned back here we go. Silver hounds harry and scent the blood on souls, pallid and leashed. Who is expected night after night in the soft light? The word is a stored cask. Light useless air tastes aftermaths. Inhaling the cold emptiness, the glamour and strangeness coming back at bedtime. This is that time of year when you behold the fewness in me, the littleness that is a ruination. Lewd and cunning and a second self glowing in fire and ash. Who expires in the strong length of our arrivals, closures, the vivid momentous lingerings.? Well we do, we do, certain and motley and changed utterly, terrible goodwill and a shrill voice harries us - from where does that come? It is a bitter voice, and not ours. It rebukes and changes, transforms what we might have as purpose, what enchants us together. Tumble down comes shadows of clouds. Horses and the long legged woman calls me to live inside her like a dreamed sacrifice. I will be excessive always. Always. From where the voice though? Summers and rolling winters. Lofty sounds impress our seclusion. The days come like dark sycamores losing themselves and losing us. How wild can we dare run the silence over vagrant months, hermits we'll live. Here is the din of cities and sensations in blood and unremembered trivial goodness. I owe you all my gifts which are burdens and blame. Affections, what do they do but suspend us and sleeps down with us like seeing into the life of things. Darkness and daylight fevers hang on us and turn us to each other, gleams of thoughts that are somewhat sad and perplexed come towards on tip toe, like the future led by dreaded nature and sought loves. Coarse pleasures are all in all what we might be and could become, deep and gloomy and the appetite that charms and gleams and borrows from the eye aching joys. Raptures are losses and learn us. faultless and humanity chastened and subdued and disturbed. There are giants and round oceans and the mind. I would we roll through all things, mighty and both what we create in perception and senses and hidden secretive being. Suffer me and be with me and on the banks of the river a language shoots wild noisy intercourse of waters rising and falling, the winter cold a portion of how we heal. Heal us. Here is where we might be stood together with deeper zeal a landscape both for ourselves and your sake. It's been a stormy night And the boats hug the shore And some do fall and die of fright But I want more Is this our simple fate To either love or hate? Outside our arrangements come those who want to hurt but when their jealousies are done it's our doom they assert Is this our simple fate To either love or hate? Crawling through this land and time I'm feeling hopeless and like I'm dying I see the hard man coming all smoke and knives But I'll take both his women and his nine lives Is this our simple fate To either love or hate? It's been a stormy night And the boats hug the shore And some do fall and die of fright But I want more Is this our simple fate To either love or hate? Outside our arrangements come those who want to hurt but when their jealousies are done it's our doom they assert Is this our simple fate To either love or hate? Crawling through this land and time I'm feeling hopeless and like I'm dying I see the hard man coming all smoke and knives But I'll take both his women and his nine lives Is this our simple fate To either love or hate?I am hardly revived. This is a dome in air, my ice skull, beware of the woven weaving shores, seas, rocks, islands, waters, wood and images returning with jay, dog, death. Meaning comes like a stye. Animals range out across the pine, fog, dissolved faces. Fox pulses in shadow. More distant than small leaves, hurrying feet, underneath, bowsplit under now, January. Everything half conscious, half formed, a life of time and resigned speech. Awakened lips part and who is calling? Who is calling? There are sea birds in the storm, over great waves, fields, lives ploughed and Archimedean. Some pale shell is found on the sand and dark falls. There are dragged beings in the loveliness. The skies look painted in cheap paint. Horses beat the life out. Nothing is left after their great trampling but the clack of musical bones strenuous in destruction. Frost on cracked windows and shocked boughs, buried in the cool conifers. Stood by a wall a half covered phantom. You see him? There are bells in the wicked twilight. Adored. Intimate. Outside ominous time. Other arts keep a brain barren. Alone in a motion of all elements there's power above come plummeted and down. An eagle's ear hears the lowest sound. Here is a strong love, voice of gods drowsy in its harmonious devilry. A wolf is in your gut. A fresh thinking hunger. Some sights come. Colder and weeping. There are blights we are born for. Sometime naked feet stalk your chambers. Wild dangers and ranging, busily, continual change and fortune. Long for sweetness, no dream and a broad awakening, am served something like fear. Furious winter seems to rage and comes to dust. I live across the lightening and the thunder stone and am always young in this. What charms, ghosts, quiet consummation is a grave. I am the muffled drum. Doves are cotton in the noon or midnight come. Who needs the sweeping wood if this ends. Deceit and love meet in smiles says William Blake. Only the lone smile only once smiles forever at the end of all misery. I am gone about that business soon. Soon in the air will be my place and power. This is the kind of true frailty. A tarnished sort of relic and you. Graves learn and our land is something else abroad and miraculous and roaring. Does anyone know how to love? To live even? We hardly touch the freeing seals. These are obscure darlings, thoughts like cruel children. Round comes the sounds of salt sea and mourning. Hold elegies to the deep dead. Secret city is where we live, by the rising Thames, a first death beyond which - nothing. Hedge pigs whine and something is near where the toad is and a venom boiling in a pot. Double and bubble up the baked tongue, I speak a charm, hell broth and its toiled burning , on a scale that is big and blasphemy. Where is she? Strangling the firm and good. An eagle is crooked in its own gored shadows and the sun and crawling sea and thunderbolts trouble rake and rake the sky. Something of the old anger and the threshed time stares and warms up and cools, rioted gales through the woods, nothing quiet. Today our troubles and shifts, no wisdom and babbling, shrewd and this woven road, diverged and glowing in yellow, twinned figures bending and parting. Why? Warnings. Black other days and green sighs and ages and hence diverged. These are where we make differences. Waves and lonely rain. The evenings are agents of magic and our prostitutes are poets. The double beds are drenched in blood and scarlet legs. Cities can seem infected. Vast herds of silent animals dream us. Lakes are pitch and rounds despair to the bereft wild drowning you spoke of. I am the weeds and wilderness and the sedge is desolate and breaks the axel, the girdle of east and west, your breasts and the essential writhing that lays the arched universe open. The golden eyes of madness shine glad and strange. It is late when the snipe from its marsh finds itself alone again. Who is hard enough to find that court by the sea and the silver masted boat and the skins of birds, fish, silk and a shade. Who is dead here? I give two eyes to you in love. What is a coal or a slo or the dark overhead and the things we take, you from me and me from you. I am unable to pass you by. The morning is a silent bare field. The calm comes sweetly. It seems a mighty still heart is what makes us tremble. I am the painted child mumbling empty smiles, the prompt of smut or rhyming wit, or witless, amphibious like a reptile or arthropod with claws. I can say I looked into the air too long. I may say that. The centre of love travels into vacancy and we make ghosts with every choice we make. Bells and the rattle of life and death are our choirs in the evensong. Sad. Who will shine us like the pallour of a girls brow and silent mind, the dusk is drawn down into us. Walk with me down with rabbit holes for a ladder to an ancient truth. Its in our bones and flesh and skin and veils to heaven. other lives and living grown over my moss and snails and the thunder of millions of others who live and talk until they too are covered and no longer walk I see the old ruins and the walls and woods enchantments from ecstasies and floods And wonder how everything goes down into nowhere where nothing flows I see you fearful and then in rage I read you as you turn the page And then you're gone in the blink of an eye where turtle doves lament and cry This is a night and then something clasped tight to the breast as if it might be dashed carelessly away by something too strange to resist its force. Only you might gage the threat and danger of this secret terror that shakes you from always to never I see you fearful and then in rage I read you as you turn the page And then you're gone in the blink of an eye where turtle doves lament and cry But no you aren't a book to be read nor a line of a poem or song. Your head rested gently on your folded arms and sad epitaphs were scored there and mad the time and often there was too dim a light to see your feelings rise up in fright I see you fearful and then in rage I read you as you turn the page And then you're gone in the blink of an eye where turtle doves lament and cry Drinking coffee in twilight and then at night as the soft cough of time and the heron's flight you watch a screen or lie alone with just thought and dreams is there something sought in these moments where a staggering touch is like an epiphany or else is nothing much I see you fearful and then in rage I read you as you turn the page And then you're gone in the blink of an eye where turtle doves lament and cry there's a scent and a wood thrush, sharp dog tooth and sighs over the suffering animals and the breath of pine and fog. I am more distant than ever, and what use an eye under sleep when we meet under sight, cracked and unmade and unremembered. Am I half conscious and disformed? There is an unspoken, resigned hope. I might call out like that thrush and inhabit it. Fully and at daybreak after a sudden storm. Centuries are sedentary compared to this. A strange fragile shell of troubled life, what is poured into this? Time changes the terrible things born in beauty and in years. We are rolled again into seclusion so deep the quiet of the sky seems but shadow and shallow. Wreaths of smoke are your thoughts, they rise alone and blind the landscape. What are the felt sensations of the pure heart and its restored pleasures? Can you answer to your own acts of kindness and love? Some blessed weights are those corporeal moods, like a living soul joyous and seeing into the life of things. Darkness may diminish or may diminish you. I have the turning, here and here and here, turning and perplexed, We change and like roes we lept to seek the things we loved. But has all this all gone by now? What is this haunting? Where comes the remoteness and those unborrowed feelings busy and withholding raptures? There is a still sad music of animals and we have a presence that disturbs something far more interfused and is there in the mind of your stillness and sadness. So there is the suffered dearness. Your wild eyes are prayers. They cannot betray their quietness and tongues nor rashness will ever prevail against them, against you. You are the solitary memorised fear, grief, tender joy. It's a kind of madness caught in the shoal net, far deeper zeal and a kind of holiness than ever any had clutched. This is all like weather and rain and what it does. You would never know what once lay there, otters and trouts and woodpeckers and crows and squirrel and fox alone and where no others go anymore - like an old road that's gone, gone for years now and no one can remember its way. strange times strange ways strange pathways and strange words down where the lion and the lamb lays out the scripts that the prophets heard So why is the songbird in winter sad why are these curses and the time going bad? Strange are the whispers strange the weather Strange the river bending and strange the lake Strange the pine forests and the rolling hills and heather Strange the voices that clamour and the sound they make So why is the songbird in winter sad why are these curses and the time going bad? See the holy man fall and the blood start to flow there's nobody praying and ther's nowhere to go The washing's on the line and the wind is blowing I want you to stay so why are you going So why is the songbird in winter sad why are these curses and the time going bad? Starnge are the faces and strange the tears strange are the spaces and strange are the years Strange are the people who said they would stay and strange are the loved ones who went far far away So why is the songbird in winter sad why are these curses and the time going bad? strange times strange ways strange pathways and strange words down where the lion and the lamb lays out the scripts that the prophets heard So why is the songbird in winter sad why are these curses and the time going bad?the rose will come again and blue skies will mount the horizon there'll be those we want and those we blame and the one who you want to look in her eyes again Come out into the winter light the grey brightness and the frosty bite see your breathing in the silent air and wait and see and don't despair The beggar walks in the cold cold streets the sparrows fall and the little girl weeps A nightingale sings though it's getting too late And the goldcrest is quiet and thinking about fate Come out into the winter light the grey brightness and the frosty bite see your breathing in the silent air and wait and see and don't despair There are kings and presidents and they all rule thinking they know the difference between the wise and the fools they have jewels and binoculars and a deadly leer but there ways are cursed and they live in fear Come out into the winter light the grey brightness and the frosty bite see your breathing in the silent air and wait and see and don't despair Some times I'm thinking of the time of our death when the skies do fall and we lose our breath and it might seem cruel and it does seem sad But sometimes I'm happy and the tidings are glad Come out into the winter light the grey brightness and the frosty bite see your breathing in the silent air and wait and see and don't despair Love's got skewered and it's all aslant Night time's the moment when the lovers pant And mornings and noontime the day gets late I'm going to go fishing and I have my bait Come out into the winter light the grey brightness and the frosty bite see your breathing in the silent air and wait and see and don't despair