I'm Not Batman - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
Old Ugly Man's Reverie (2).mp3
Old Ugly Man's Reverie (1).mp3
Sleeve Notes
Some centuries passed and nothing clears You smoked the Amai and gazed at the distance. Your kinsmen were silent And read your presence in reeds and the wind. Your genealogy raves out. Nights were beds of suspicion and deals. Each dance went too far. Slipping out the tent by dawn every priest was a dark cloud and you, I swear, made their half lives halved again. You made secrets donations. Time Was forbidden. This, the hot momentum. What swells isn’t pride. Nor love. Nor fancy. You collected gifts like buffalos. How many camels? How many pack-oxen and horses, caravans, deserts, wools and salts? Your grey eyes were storms and your violence ripped open wounds. The palm trees made thin alliances stronger under a heinous sun. You travelled further. In your wake the dust and dirt fortified maps. At Hursinhur a mad Englishman took your photograph. Junagarh Fort Was not yet completed when you passed by. Your centuries embed Another layer. You left them your own architect with compliments. Years later he was castrated, murdered, open eyes shrieking glory. These centuries pass like gateways inside gateways, or cascading water pools. Karan Pol faces east, always east - and the sun-rays are good omens. But I saw you crouched in the red sandstorm, eyes like iron spikes. What dreams came to you? What did it mean to live with sentinels, Elephants, your carved sandstone pavilions? Wherefore comes the pyre?