Here Comes Love - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

6th These are not propositions but blank forms of propositions. Doesn’t that imply they are then propositions? Even if I can fill them in in countless ways? Here is another thing: the possibility of an absolute is identical with its actuality. Ha. Inevitably the earth will be destroyed. We cannot stop loving what we started to love. There is a courage in that. Everything eaten will answer your crimes. This summer outside the city smells of hay. What am I to do with her traitors and knowledge of history? I used to think courage and love were the same. Along the roads are the buried. It is hard to trample this good solid earth and not think of them. Small humans make more sense than big ones. Every day is an ellipsis. The insane emptiness of a cow is just a projection of this human biology gone to seed. We’ll cool to hardened clay and then see. This field and this road are our miracles. Rain is endless. Then sun. Then snow. Then fog. I would delve deeper but the longer you live the stories change so that evil becomes more noble and our side terrible. They broke her legs and left her with a torn eye and ribbons along the rug. Fire creeps along the wooden planks. Every war begins with the women and it’s over when they are. In Hiroshima the gangsters kept all the little girls and fed them whilst the boys were left to starve. Then one day the girls were gone. Shipped away to a red place of primate naturalism. What we saw that frosty dawn wasn’t from this planet. What you said is that a woman is not an animal. There are so many death beetles satellites pick up their swarms across the Rockies from outer space. We sell too much oil to recognize anything. The troops found girls of ten. What they did to them they hid from their own women and nurses in shame, looking for peace. Soldiers are like that. Their minds are charred and hang very low. Sisters, mothers, wives pray they never come back but are killed. Lovers are different. It’s better not to have to embrace heroes. Some mothers decided it best to drown their daughters both after and before. Even the ones who begged them, saying they wouldn’t cry. I never did like great ideas. Great heroes. Great History chains us to the deepest vilest hunger post. A heifer burns in the night circling its own charred burden of a red moon in a barren flat field. How can anyone live in this? The old tell me to leave their souls and write of their decorations, certificates, houses, children. The bronzed hero caught the pickpocket, took his arm on his knee and snapped it. All gallantry is now clay mixed with sand and a rich dress in a coffin. We’re all missing in action when war happens. What buries the dead in white linen? It’s hard to kill a human being. Trust me. Don’t live to learn truth but sure, killing’s harder than dying. I did both. There’s an enormous chorus in the head that won’t stop. They are singing of the great mysteries. Your decadence drowns out the beauty. Our horror is one step, then the next, onwards, one step, one step, one step. A girlish braid round her skull, like a crown of surprise, she is ordinary and afraid to hold a rifle. At Diakovskoe you know what happened near the barns, by the fences, in the furrows, by the woods and the motherland’s translations of modern latin to Greek. The Byzantine heritage bled into the material of supreme visual creations. Gospel stories continue to happen here. I am the fresco with the open maw and angels like daleks and decorative borders. All I ever wanted you to know was that my tears never dried. Our hearts were refused. Robust health now is a matter of not being left by yourself reinforced by the barren tree that crowns the rocky hill in a pieta with flowers and shrubs and a stark tone. Our scenes were ever vertically paired. Chemical protection kept our eyes shut as we ran through the fields. Have you a higher grade for combat than me? I don’t think so darling. I’m always never more than five minutes from being ready. There’s something between the Godhead in mankind and the indwelling body in a Saviour. My Eucharist is a distant target. Boots come in just the right size and colour. As do paper footwraps. My parents were both virgins. We were knitted into a whole no one could believe. What were you looking for? Sculptured regulations, garrison service, camouflage, the denseness of ineffable grief? I am tight in design but less so when it comes to spatial harmonies. Harmonies generally actually. My images are culled. Can I be your spokesman? I like being pitied for a while because of the lower registers you receive, the kiss of Judas, the presence of widows out to where the sufferers lay. What was your instruction: ‘I look, you shoot’? This was a process of revisualization. The sort of terror you feel in this is about not being able to make up your mind. I preferred it when you were asked to hate not pity. But then again I remembered what someone had once told me: ‘ I perish if he does not find mercy: I perish if Adam does not die: mercy and truth meet together: righteousness and peace have kissed each other: go tell.’ Which was a saving remedy of sorts. And a way of setting up a debate. And combined the regal with a humane aspect. Your look was a niche. Telescopic sights make the killing more a resistance to devotional literature than just slaughter. But it is slaughter. There’s no absolute symmetry here. Nor saints. I can give you no more than six scenes. First, I had to talk myself into hating and killing and even then I looked at it as if a sacred drama in white lead. Second there was a duel between snipers where the Russian died with blackened little stars, human bones, cinders, scorched earth & poor hearing like the iconography of an extreme futurism. Third the scene is a female figure with a forward gesture as if somewhere a theme was being outlined almost on the spot. Everyone was shocked and didn’t know how to react. What happens when heaven leads to God’s decision and not vice versa? Fourthly my partner drinks broth, is killed, and a colt with a pretty fluffy tail sheered in half by my machine-gun as an irruption of Divine History into human history. Again. These are alters. They contain episodes of the life we all live. A fifth scene got sick and sharpened. The mind can’t stand killing like that. It dominates the tribuna and immediately impresses itself upon the head as he enters the world. The world is a chapel with poor light, ammunition running low, a pot of boiled horse meat, smoke, drugs, dry crusts and avarice. In the past I’d travelled to Vespignano, Florence, and the Arena Chapel in Padua. You once saw me as a locus classicus. My knapsack had a mouse in it. In the middle of the road I walked and my dress had been wet and was now frozen stiff so I couldn’t really walk. If anything there was a concussion hovering over everyone. You were wounded twice I hear? How was it? I’m looking for a counterpart, as it were. The colour of the film was all black. Even the red was black. Even the subtitles. How many surgeries saved you for this? In Altai in the winds and the thin heights symbolic values render a centralized interior to everything. The walled gateways ask for more emotional responses and condense. There are the dominant trees, for example, that are pitch and burnt and limbless. Here is a kind of theological justification and fulfillment. Its apparent discrepancy reminds us that our perspective is brazen and a gabled pinnacle of glory. Like a gulf between fleeing disciples and the leader. Did you find any new meanings? Your white and yellow robes, your rigid codification, your borrowed tinctures of eternity, your dense palette, your concern with time and space, your tender lyricism, traces of the soul & drapes of harmony remind me of the cavalry maiden Nadezhda Durova who disguised herself and fought alongside Napoleon. I believe all provocations. I amplify all ancient traditions. Or lose them. Did you ever read the Mariale of Albertus Magnus? All’s well in veneration until back to front. I had regular sex with an officer in the Cheka by the way. I thought you should know. Many many years ago everyone loved the Motherland. My vagina was a literally expressed sentiment, like Ducios thirty four Passion scenes in Sienna. I am a vertical shaft when at my best. Traffic controllers became snipers back then. Flexibility comes with territory and subtle variations of simultaneity. I know my physics lady. Concordances once came naturally and can do so again if we hold the line. I fetched eggs once from a barn and crushed the skull of the daughter who came. We all lined up by height. I’m a head more. There are times when we all become an alterpiece, a language best found in art, a door of heaven, a vast free-standing ensemble. It’s terrible but organized and twice the dimension of an ordinary moment. Maybe it's a haphazard intrusion but it works to harmonise other interiors we live inside. Or which live inside of us. Murderous thoughts, like rape, rarely need symbolic overtones to overcome elucidations that are actually just excuses. Everyone worked as a telephone operator before this. Or on railways. Or were hired. All I ask is that you toothed girls cut braids, open legs, shut up. I promise that this will be enough for your posthumous miracles.