Orpheus Schmorpheus - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
Sleeve Notes
she's never less than the instinct making metaphors of the chaos another charm and immediate all known things are simulations what time is she is she primordial and what knowledge comes when she carries off the nymph or crosses over with her hammers and bow strings taut as fate all nature swarms. this cold weather over London as tough as Proust and grey intransigence the laws of ice and snow open a dazzling darkness She's almost in passing with her definitions and books piled up for a long time in her watery minds eye there's beauty in all things the mysterious conversations her mouth never quite the same time as her touching hands she'll watch Harrison Ford and drink cold brewed tea and sleep her head in dreams on buckweed pillows she has the energies of convolutions and there are crystals on her tongue the days are searching and the nights are long. words make immortal bodies. our bodies fragile shells. I fear suffocation and osmosis and the communion of saints. We circulate from road to road work to work, page to page know mystery in literature and are physiologies of taste. I'm sending an urgent request as the dawn spreads out are you the poet who moves through each holy night? I saw you reading Holderlin drink from an Attic cup I'm that severed head that watches as you write. Apollo holds his rod of laurel stretches out to touch you Orpheus has his throat cut someone holds his hair from beyond. Are you the Maenad or am I? what clashes and where are our charms. Singing and bleeding you cross the Aegean to lesbos what this is is everything and where you are everywhere always you compose the world and time and watch over and compel. who burned the fields and filled the air with smoke across the hedgerows the night on fire the day with ashes? Who walked the lane and saw the big pit glowing through the days and nights coal dust floating down, floating down like mascara on our small lives? Who told us our childhoods were golden and the days warmed to our hopes and promised us futures who were they? what did they fear? and then you went into the dark and it was cold and cruel and the eerie sounds were lasting and the truth was kind of sad. you travelled the four corners and worked the fields and gardens and your epics were westerns like some gentle gunslinger your whisky was various your elegance enigmatic and strange You saw people die and you brought others in. Is this the wild west? Who's in tombstone? Life's more delicate now and your weariness under the stars. the man with no name is fate and a fistfull of dollars and dirty harry a sort of natural wryness. The buzzards soar across the far away and the woods darken the fields lanes are the secrets and our lives don't look back. Sex channels all philosophy, eloquence, prose, history into verses confiscates the right of everyone who thinks, dreams, narrates anyone who wants to be heard and puncture the mental theatre of the deadly silences that like hoops pulse around us. Prose doesn't exist except as the eerie presence of poetry in each limb, each shivered torso, the iron grip, the fatal giving, the open mouth and its purrs and screams and as soon as we have rhythm we have style the anonymous lips between thighs kissing the depths the movement of the gods and of the crocus in the wind the metrics of trees and grasses marshland and a long thousand simplicities across the enigma of breasts, ass, the stem and knot, the abrupt point and the slow secret. Your orgiastic moment was the crose de verse, the gorgeous flower, the Noh theatre of Zeami, and the closing eyes, the soft cheek, the smoky forge of the mouth and the delirious jewels of loves alphabets on kissing's traumatic ingenuities. What is boldness here? The unthinkable physiognomy and the hidden nerve structures of not existing, of being something else, other than that. We are incessantly secreted. We are fused and renewed by the generous hands and the instability of our invitations. We are the fleurs de mal and a natural opium appearing lyrical and lavish both and sober and laconic too at times. We are locks and secrets. We are the chinks and creases of dying perfumes and the coup de grace. Profound mirrors. Dispatched ruins. rocking gently. then expanded and frenzied. then a single syllable. Then loving traps. drenched alexandrines, so internal and dissolving, toned down and then broken. Such is the absurdity of love. Stretch the unlimited. that's an invitation. Everywhere present. I'm more or less tight. More or less diffuse. My meter's running. I'm back and forth. The eye is literature in light. I'm the gesture. the urgent. the element. the articulation. No prose. No poetry. divinity in a crypt. a secret dreaming. the fretted void. the fold. the tear. the trembling veil. Nervous. Nerve wracked. over heated. Clumsy as a list. a wild scheme. Forbidden. Forbidden. Like your breasts ass sex kiss the natural cadence of a sensual abandonment. lusts and the occult ground of bodies and everyone. we are the letters of desire. strewn and confused and scattered across beds, rooms alphabets. polymorphic extremities. the exposed liberty. The tone that disturbs the calm and exaggerates its depth. she is the exception from everything. so am I. the snow is falling today. Last night I drove through a snowstorm and the night crystallised my living. We are cattle of the gods. My family is alone and are starting to die. Ka? I too am becoming indefinite. Our desperation is that of confronting what we were born with. And that is death. Living's a keen edged razor. Prajapati builds fires in the groin and there are sacred powers. My mother lives in the skin of an antelope and is wrapped around herself. She does what the gods did. She sees no rites. No fires. She's in mortal peril. The pathos is that of minds and words and deeds. Her friends are all dying. Her mind is unlimited but curves. The garden blazes as snow falls and the afternoon is a dark horse and disproportionate. I have insufficient weight and flawed. I think of a young girl's amorous face and salacious beauty and the sensuality is a yoke. I'm wrapped up in bad syllables. And the afternoon becomes pervasive night. Snow falls and blinds the world. All worlds. Stretch the unlimited. That's an invitation. Everywhere present. I'm more or less tight. More or less diffuse. My meter's running. I'm back and forth. The eye is literature in light. I'm the gesture. the urgent. the element. the articulation. No prose. No poetry. Divinity in a crypt. a secret dreaming. the fretted void. the fold. the tear. the trembling veil. Nervous. Nerve wracked. over heated. Clumsy as a list. a wild scheme. Forbidden. Forbidden. Like your breasts ass sex kiss the natural cadence of a sensual abandonment. lusts and the occult ground of bodies and everyone. we are the letters of desire. strewn and confused and scattered across beds, rooms alphabets. polymorphic extremities. the exposed liberty. The tone that disturbs the calm and exaggerates its depth. She is the exception from everything. so am I. the snow is falling today. Last night I drove through a snowstorm and the night crystallised my living. we are cattle of the gods. My family is alone and are starting to die. Ka? I too am becoming indefinite. Our desperation is that of confronting what we were born with. And that is death. Living's a keen edged razor. Her mind is unlimited but curves. The garden blazes as snow falls and the afternoon is a dark horse and disproportionate. I have insufficient weight and flawed. I think of a young girl's amorous face and salacious beauty and the sensuality is a yoke. I'm wrapped up in bad syllables. Why the buzzard on the pole as a hidden muse mysteriously watching. The mother has seven meanings and a mandala. The fear comes anointing, grooming, cooking, seafaring, milking and is refined like a hymn. Everything that should be said is silent. words slip their registers and down they go into lost allegories. The children are too old to be anything more than thmselves. Their doubles are the dead coming out of the shadows and growing clearer. The room is where the valishing family gathers. A mushroom soup is a hot juice and allows for everything. The brother's wound is that motionless barrier where the body finds its limit. Voices stiffen the paralysis of terror. The drift of our meanings overwhelms original meanings. The sky darkens like mountains and then rain falls down. Life is perishable. Pain corrupts the attempt to remain unscathed. The family hung on the waters, winds, atmospheres, worlds of the sun and worlds of the poets and the worlds of gods, the worlds which ask too much. Everyone knows you can't ask certain things because your head will explode. I have an unrequited lover and a past I will have to answer for someday soon. What are truths we can actually live by? The meanings of a kiss? To copulate the dawn and moon and translate the lost enigmatic footprints in the snow in the wood in the mountains in the great lexicon. Our voices were the wild crows and pigeons in the insane sky, the great fuck fuck fuck of where we disappear like smoke. Old we fall and live as broken stumps. Life falls apart. Oh kiss my dark face and let me perish in your body's enigma. I'm looking for the crack in the sacrifice. What is this? A tiny unassailable extension of continuity in the serrated extension of what's broked up. The roads were the ways and means, and the some things are irretrievable. We disperse and remain afraid. Snow came. Winter came. Our laughter was lacerating our dimensions. I drove home through it...No need for suicide now. Death's finding it's way. We're entrusted to breathing that might end anytime soon. The trees are broken stumps. We take a breath half way through a line. The meal is what happens after this. Fear of death's secondary to being precarious. We're curiously off balance but tilting the same angle. was this the composition that was to stand up against the world? The constant sound is outside in the winter twilight. It is like stumbling up against a body in the snow. There's something intoxicating about the limpid moments. There are irreducible vibrations in dry throats. We drank a white wine with the cold meats. We were absorbed into the space of the time. Before starting anything we are awake but commonplace, amongst sparrows falling on breadcrumbs outside. The sister has a petite dog who is a everlasting 'yes' to existence, Cats and dogs reveal eternal worlds I guess. What are the lights around the skulls if not halos? No one is perishing so much as using the time to look inside. The talk was kind of unborn talk, and attached were actions. A health worker rang and the brother who was cryptic and strong as a blacksmith played the archetypical sacrifice. What was poured into the rite? The hide of cows, the people out in the highstreet, crawling towards the decomposing poles to the gods and treachery, on earth, turning outwards towards cunning men and women, and everything's ambiguous. One day you're wandering about and then you're where nothing's really hidden, or hidden enough. There in this final house is a prodigious suspension of time. What is the garden if not sacred hibernation. Who lies underground? the father is the winter solstice. he is the ground. He is a seal of immortality. But death has him. What will come when the winter goes? Who will again walk the earth and craft a life and mysteries? I sought to comfort them and myself. I did neither. There is such a thing as measuring magic. It's a kind of profane eros. I think of the slick shadows of the women, who come and come under different names. There are shadowy relationships and denials. Fetish and reflection are two sides of the same coin. Her thighs and backside, her unstoppable cataracts and her simulacra reign down in the snow from a broken heaven. In their wake comes death, because what follows any copy is death. It's not what we want to be reminded of. We are all repeated and then replaced. The lights made little headway against the brooding dark. Apparitions were also lost. We ate the late lunch as the temperature plummeted and shaped the space. All love will require forgiveness. so these winters drinking a hot chocolate and guessing the infiltrating lights of her skin Holderlin to the present light she is the old norse genre never superfluous never irksome. Capricious is the frozen planet the cold wind blowing over the lock scalding the face I forgot my coat and theories. The dark afternoon sky masks a dangerous vibration somewhere the eye misses everything's pot shards and handkerchiefs. I remain insolent on the road by Camden Town station which is Nabakov's reality in inverted commas . Who was the figure in the stomach of the time it felt like the space was a riverbed for all literature. The Oxfam bookshop went down the same spine as I did. The poet said she had lines that overwhelmed her as epiphanies. Romaharsa is the delicious happiness of hairs down the back of your neck and a hard-on. Something departs. Some writers are aesthetic shocks. Others apparitions. Everything is sexual sometimes. Allergic to oneself of course. There's an irregular irrepressibility in the nouns and in the train scraps of images behaving like assonance. This elusive base is here where you're intrinsically incapable of being translated into some definition. These were the things I bought: Love poetry of sapho, The legacy by Vilon the penguin book of Japanese verse and a double vinyl of Glen Gould in all his guises with Bach and so was in that finding language as mythic. These days are open mysteries and fuck me over with the unmistakable monologue of someone prodigiously hopeless.. The last night as evening fell we slaughtered time again in a language as intimate and derided as Cassandra's by the Trojans. How does poetry appear on these long impulsive nights foxes move in their own reflections I speak fucked up things. Oh yea This is the final house the final garden scene the final meal the final discussion the final turn around the final human moments the final immortal place the final absolute and literature. So our names are our cult and we're our own enclosed spaces and the original state of things perverse as any mental event and degrading and pathological and effective clinics excuse staring up the skirts of nymphs and violent as the physical knots between our sprung thighs where all worlds are myths. I'm hyper-real and surviving Pausanias unsure of what he is you are it is you're audacious and demanding severe and abandoning the prescribed styles far away by the hedgerow where you toss him off yourself an absolute with dark eyes. Love me as the days draw in and love me as they draw away And be my proud seraph my Novalis of the eye your brightness is vicious your body a manifesto I'll take you over me and be decisive barbaric desecrating the goddess the religious is social the social is sexual the sexual the territory beyond liturgy and cult. Fuck me til my imagination bleeds I'm superimposing and deranged Fuck me til my imagination bleeds I'm superimposing and deranged... so the M1 from Rotherham down to London possessed by snow and inspirations like a vast new language falling into the hands of a damned and a poet. driving in the dark there's no will just an operation not even an argument maybe a series of arguments flows of words about words language and thoughts about language skimming over windscreens. Everything moves too strange just tiny gaps to breath through and its not even subjectivity nothing to trace out nor dialectic. the flight was strenuous unfathomable depths of night wellsprings and speculations of seeing and silence. some dread is uncontrollable like some demonic presto reckless swerves through lanes speeds carrying no identity cards there seemed no authority no boss strange enough to imagine a metaphysics for it like a lonely child and her games. Sweet mutations and this century already to die, already ready for that. The roads are lean as wolves hungry inprints of expression. I would like good intentions. but also to flash, ravish, amaze become monomaniacal and bring you to the tragic style, its crisis there's all this haunting journeys between expectations and nothing. I want to escape cages built in ice am fire turning it watery fire drowns. you're what lies beyond terrestrial ghosts. I'd rip the clothes from you be the shade of underworlds Obviously lacking Obviously dead Obviously violence is what's been refused I read the Birth Of Tragedy as autobiography and what's at stake is everything in a single moment. so the M1 from Rotherham down to London possessed by snow and inspirations like a vast new language falling into the hands of a damned and a poet. driving in the dark there's no will just an operation not even an argument maybe a series of arguments flows of words about words language and thoughts about language skimming over windscreens. Everything moves too strange just tiny gaps to breath through and its not even subjectivity nothing to trace out nor dialectic. the flight was strenuous unfathomable depths of night wellsprings and speculations of seeing and silence. some dread is uncontrollable like some demonic presto reckless swerves through lanes speeds carrying no identity cards there seemed no authority no boss strange enough to imagine a metaphysics for it like a lonely child and her games. Sweet mutations and this century already to die, already ready for that. The roads are lean as wolves hungry inprints of expression. I would like good intentions. but also to flash, ravish, amaze become monomaniacal and bring you to the tragic style, its crisis there's all this haunting journeys between expectations and nothing. I want to escape cages built in ice am fire turning it watery fire drowns. you're what lies beyond terrestrial ghosts. I'd rip the clothes from you be the shade of underworlds Obviously lacking Obviously dead Obviously violence is what's been refused I read the Birth Of Tragedy as autobiography and what's at stake is everything in a single moment. There were three of us self-sufficient and manifest the one who writes the one who speaks and the wanderer who compels and is a god. there's a force field and everything is held there every sentence and form a variation of it. ambiguity is points of view and extremes don't have warnings you're hunched absorbed over a laptop in a cafe the vast days outside and sometimes no authors. is there anything surrounding you? Is someone besides you? The head drifts and streets are waters and something bleeds through them and over into winter skies. whose hand stretches out and what is being compelled and are you fathoming mysteries or forbidding such things? Days come like a vortex of cars buses and pedestrians and you're motionless and silent I want to write you to immortality. black coffee and the scent of bread black and white photos of david bowie on the wall by her head and the fingers moving over . She writes.some days can be cold and the walk on the bridge over the canal is so lonely and so tears carried on the bitter wind blowing ah somedays it's impossible, just impossible. some days you read texts messages and you break down inside and rush about to breath in shops and other channels and once there was a star where clever animals invented knowledge and that's our sad sad story our sad and lonely story. And she's serious and remembers and she's sad and happy too and her ways are strange kingdoms to the dead and the living I'm full of suns and moons and people I have made up and girls I haven't kissed and worn out coins I'm upside down and inside out mad as a silly old coot tears in my eyes washing out paradise where am I now and where will i be and when there where's the silver lining and where are you? you're the gleam that sparked the sun you're the tears that washed us away you're the impossible beauty and the heartbeat of minutes, days and you are impossible to pick up and impossible to put down and when you speak its forever and who could even think after. you don't protect your visions or your glass flesh and your thresholds your merciless and pitiless families and dynasties. Should I wait as you pass me by or should I play my cards and the clubs and the joker might guess you better than sunlight and frost where is the moonlight in your eyes and your hymns to those who might impress you and buy your highs and lows who are these that stand by your door and why the weeping and guns and what are they saying they'll do if they find you or lose you you were in Troy once and a blue angel and Tangiers maybe by the docks no one just wants to kiss you. you have a mothers tongue and the curfews of the long middle ages and walk the sad prophecies of things lost and abandoned you whistle down the wind and despair of the angelic hoards and know how best to torment the well wishers and take the blame at your feet too. are you home now or far far away are you heading somewhere or just moving are you as sad as your eyes and will this ever end ?She doesn't always know she's a mystery to herself as is her world she's as deceitful as necessary She comes on like Dietrich and has the sadness of the stars and the lonely moments in a crowded room how she moves and speaks and how she is obviously everything oh this is the night speaking and the drinks whispering and she's far far away and why am I here again? She doesn't always know she's a mystery to herself as is her world she's as deceitful as necessary She comes on like Dietrich and has the sadness of the stars and the lonely moments in a crowded room how she moves and speaks and how she is obviously everything oh this is the night speaking and the drinks whispering and she's far far away and why am I here again? This is where a cosmos walks blind and the instincts aren't placated my lonely hearts a sequence and a star hardened eloquence because how she moves and speaks and how she is obviously everything oh this is the night speaking and the drinks whispering and she's far far away and why am I here again?