Hex Candid Arts Hex - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
Funky Ride to Angel Station.mp3
Sleeve Notes
Protest Songs for Candid Arts and Arts Venues Everywhere
The Ilium Fragment (translated by Simone Graves)
You screamed ‘I shouldn’t believe just recognize them’ & stood by palm trees and fountains where merchants lazed about. I guess the bitches here are not religious but slow and honeyed and vengeful. Also, these firmaments are too rigid to be ours. Costly too. There were perfumes and the slower scents of strawberries and dust roads and the salt sea. You were beyond coitus, birth and death. Every sound built a furnace in a shadow and it had been seven years without rain. These were invisible days and you, by the port, talked at a single level like a stream run to the ocean. He knew Schubert before Kant and his death though integral was an accidental tone. What were the statues you sold and made your business by? And from Rome to Persia you lifted yourself across civilizations without touching or being touched. Your gown is pinned by daggers and folds either down or horizontally. You always seem to be perched like a dead-eyed falcon and your eyes sear the black Nile’s cut throat. Who will you stand by? What do gods sacrifice and to what? Your stone impermanence rebukes us all and is the root of libations. It’s how you teach that we shall disappear forever. It is no easier to be an animal than everything. The ibis on the scorched lawn is something that seems to always exist. Life gamed is a foundation. You were drinking first nectar and then wine. What corrodes in your verses? There is just one example of a civilization founded by poets. It explains the golden calves , the golden serpents elsewhere I guess. Who were you when you fucked the snake guard and dreamed him Zeus? Question: Why are Pound’s epithets dismissed by Mr Eliot? Answer: Homer. Know this, that your isolation and solitude is more and more a ceremonial. You’ve become an abbreviation of appearance, but some say you were that at birth. Go figure. Illium was the blind hill where Troy and Agamemnon perished everlastingly. Gods pass through everything, even the carnation flowers and all death without archetypes. Why did you say so little and perch a tiny statue on your sill staring out east as if in homage to your stillness and distance? You said that there is no redemption because life is incurable. Everyone approached you as if a mist which would disappear in the heat of the incubations. What I mastered were sentences that eroded themselves. You want to feel guilty? How, when you can’t be a cause, just or otherwise? Your ankles are slender and your hair flows into the sky. I can stand casually and most things repeat themselves. There is imitation and mystical secrecy in your mimicry. Gods adapt to places. Only the original hunter knew that hunting was life. When divinity and killing were cut apart humans became weak and simulacra. What I said at the time was that you were the god who came back and I saw their fear.