Mandala Mandala - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

Brenda lee asked it right There’s the old’s penetrating gaze and its supreme rank. When you did that was it submission or sadness? Their weakness was never pride but vanity, luxury, and mortal seeds. Here women are prolific. Everything is chance and admits of no laws. These beasts seem like absolutes. Only initiates are friends. Democracy starts esoteric and degenerates to the intangible if automatic. You used to sing very early in the mornings and this was your version of being expelled from life. Will you ever share willingly? And as what – a child or a tame animal? Your domesticity was always nothing more than your great enemy and frugality and austerity a way you had of controlling its triviality. Look at your prudence, tranquility and moderation and then ask what manias were you deprecating? What you always liked to say was that people had lost their sense of beauty. As if you could care less. It was no more than a wedge. Your face is furrowed by the ruins of Perachora, Dodona, Delphi, Olympia, the Heraion of Argus, the temples at Bassae, Epidaurus, Dion, Trezen, Messene. A climate of intense heat and insane waterless storms are where proofs are laid out in divine breath and fire and whatever was laid to waste in the despoliation. Only sacrifice, singing, dancing and fending off enemies make sense here. These were the games you played. Your tongue is haunted. The Gods went mad. Your soul combines with the mind and educates subsequent millennia. There is an irregularity in your voice that is the opposite of good. Now we are all afraid and sleep alone and ask Why does the sun stay shining? Why does the sea run to the shore? And so on…