Paris - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

The shore guard Regardless of whose bosom I lie in I will disappear. In those days came soldiers over the plains with curses and hot winds blown from the desert and marshes and such hatred too and it was morning and my love was dead. I am a foreigner here as elsewhere and afford simple fare. Every man counts their own hearts against me, such are their measurements made and I keep my English as a climax of syntax, argument and spite. All servants have departed and troubles come in sleep and so may I draw on the harsh days and hardships never stop, narrow nights neither and the stars are cold lipped and the frosts chill the haunted moon. This is an outcast I have here and there I would leave watching the gannets fly and the muse refusing to sing and drink whilst the screaming boats in the low harbour abide my heavy business and I feel weary in the nightshade and over the land come burdens and camels and streams of long travelled strangers. The gulls are greedy and daring and sorrowful. Where went delight and desire and whyfore the longing and the late blossom and berries brisk in the eager meadows? Think on the floods and fires where prosperous men are destroyed and the gloomy songs that bitter wield eternal tides of doom-gripped bodies. After the living boast, they still frame their malice in the world as remains that have better arrogance where gold, kings, lords are all vile and unendurable. Their tombs are low and earthly glory ends at the earth’s edge, where a pale and grey sun is a lament in dismal seasons that won’t change, nor stir the mid-heart nor graves, so there is no worth likely anywhere. It was a leopard on the wall last night and the dogs went wild and the hogs squealed as the broad fields below turned crimson and who was left to rejoice? I wish you all dead again, my granted spite and breast stern and no less true than ever before. Fear comes with a sun rising in a ruby arc in the morn, so too scorn over these brush trees and stained harsh grounds, and from the shoreline out of a fierce salt sea whose waves like sluts drum and cry against it the ships appear and will take the harbor and rape the city by nightfall. It will take time and I have nowhere else to be.Tiger Here is fictitious bait. The chopped seas are Flaubert. Clocks and men’s memories are cases and an age needs a modern sundial, reveries outwards with mendacities and unrhymed flowings. You are defecting and decrees will outlaw your saint’s vision and these are franchises and persist. Who rules the brightness and where comes the wreath for the heroes? I have a fear of adventure and know slaughter and censure. Who leaves old men’s lies untouched, unread and not remembered? Infamy is thick and public in the wasted time and disillusion is an hysteria from our myriad bellies. Bitches charm us with good mouths and gross laments. We are merely pastimes. The thin ruined gaze is passive and passed us without surprise with adulteries, lies, and robberies. In catacombs the rats are gigantic and show little traces of tissue, pure mind nor harlot bedlams. This is a strange Dorian decade, its mood a neglected reverie we are limpid and forlorn in. The dangers are considerable and appalling. The smoke will never clear and our eyes read no literature anymore; there’s nothing in it, we know this. What is this welter? Where is my mistress? Who is the sophisticated youth in the succulent Malaysian courtyard? These are stations of lethe. We await the cool stimulation of uncertain age, salon and theatre. Revolution comforts stupidity and besides the thoroughfare of roses and the young stud’s muscles and his girl’s religious excess we are bereft of aesthetics. Our cult is esoteric and circular like a maintained empire. There is a vagueness that won’t come nor go. Everyone’s clever as hell by seventeen. All I liked was the faded photograph of the tiger hunter.