Perfect Blue Vase - Johnny Pulp and The Lemonheads
Sleeve Notes
Are you red-winged? Is that even a wig? No. Ha. Rusty sunbeams. No rosette. Boundless. I can't sleep now. dreams came and you weren't naked but nevertheless. Hitching. hair's an ostensory. What the fuck does that mean? My body wanes. My mind is sick. Soon all is red dusk. Sad. Bodies need fewer hours. death comes for you. It's because you write poetry. Stop writing. Fucking hell, you cry out but you write. You write in raptures. You write in trains. You write in cafes when the rain falls or dark comes. You write as a burden. You write to hide. You write to illuminate your shadow. Somedays others. The weariness of departed strength. The ravished. The jealous twelfth hours. The allurement and torments. To stay away. To come closer. To see. To blind yourself. To pout. To kiss. To tremble. To make an evening of it. To lie. And shout. And whisper impassively. Dazzle. Touch. gasp. Vent. stir up a worse silence or a better one. Stop writing. Stop writing. Your despair will come no matter. Light the mind like a wing. Obviously. Fucking obviously. You’re hardboiled and a tough guy. You scream into your fists and kick. Kick at the head. Ribs are escape artists. I'd watch. I'd watch out. You know you have cinematic beauty. Sex appeal. High flying sorrows. A midnight swimmer. You swim to the moon and back. You're a lifeline and lifelong. Methods of ingenuity. A montage from a late-life masterwork I once saw. I owe more than I can repay. The hardcore system. It reaches us. It touches. Reaches out. The laughter's a sick one. 8 millimeter sex film loops and skeezy guys. red lights and hellish electronic themes. Triple XXX. It's that weight. Innocence as the exact opposite of itself. A decision is just that. Some days you hold yourself against your will. There's a runaway soul. A runaway. Sometimes people are seething. And then you just want them to go home. Some days they're comically repressed. These are asking for repulsion. And you have a slender part to play. Your conscience is shredded. Have you qualms? About what? About what? Remember when the corner store rented XXX tapes when Blockbuster's didn't? Those were strange days. They were strange. I stayed strange. Well. Well. Throw the dice. This is the scene we were heading towards. I'm straightening up. I'm leaning forward. I'm ready. You're a tall glass of milk. Stroke your conjunction with . And probability. Veils of illusion. The wraith of gesture. The idle chance. the obsession falling. a mystery hurled out and down. horror and giggles. The soothing. utter loss. Bitter princess. Merging with the beyond. the higher surface. The successive impact. the full reckoning. Rolling on. Rolling on. Rolling on and cold with neglect and vacant . The exalted sun halts. You jumped through the shadows. The bar is a vertebrae of the watchmen. Pure sight. Frozen glaciers. Glasses of flight. Everyone's a principle of salvation. Salutation. You never looked. Never looked better. The obnoxious loudmouth has a messy soul. The dialogue is a cliché with depth. Something else. Behind it all. Visions. I need my backlot quality. Its something to throw in. About. Spin from. Pivot. I'm the wordless opening sequence. Think 'Prisoner of Alcatraz.' no nonsense. I'm heavy livestock. I always have something to lose. I can't abdicate and slum it on a beach. malibu or wherever. My premise is nutty and probably bad. What's your excuse? You are the movie. Ha. Fair play. Fair play. The woods are lovely dark and deep. The woods are lovely dark and deep. I have miles to go before sleep before sleep. Robert Frost. The trigger and minimalism. Sorry runs like a prison film. She's sat looking out the window. It's midnight gone and the rain. The nighthawks are never sleeping. The sorrow is indefinite and time is a force. Who dares to close their eyes. And what does she see beyond the veil of scripts and exploited hell. So She's sat looking out the window. It's midnight gone and the rain. The nighthawks are never sleeping. The sorrow is indefinite and time is a force. Who dares to close their eyes. And what does she see beyond the veil of scripts and exploited hell. So now what? Eyes staring at pavements, someone else drunk on sorrow and beer and the taste of something amiss. Whatever you thought you'd be has passed over, and all this is torment. The white sobs are blossoms and there are gazes that shut me down. This isn't a flute in my hand, and those flats are cold and desolate and I don't wear lipstick anymore, and am no coquet. I drink coffee when I can, and read books like crows road kill. I'm an evil of vast bitterness. I'm the plumed serpent and my jug is empty except for the despair. All the despair there is. I'm shrewd and intoxicated with the sort of energies that hangs people from streetlamps. My weirdness isn't much more than worms for hairs. Poets are always after free food and yet they spend everything on gods. This moon may well be sad but so what? I let them all in on the sorrows and take the piss. Suck on the faded blossoms, the yellow streams and the rashes. You want pity? I've only a lash and twin tyrants. My scorn's an urn covered with glistening mildew. Everything's beyond the torrent. Suck on the mouths that can't speak for themselves. Suck on the ravished lips. All I will be in the terrible angel on the horizon coming for you all, like Prometheus without the vulture. I'm standing by the side of the road pushing old people into the traffic. I create martyrs of the contorted chance. I'm right behind you. Who has these same desires an a temptation for abject pity? Who hasn't? There are salt faces and gentle tears and my hearts a fierce fucking drum that beats and beats and beats down. This rain is genocide. This laughter is about the blows and the terror and the last swum nights underwater. I'm as desolate as these drab streets and these exploited howls. No more you cry. No more. But all that's left to do is hang yourself to the next bough. I'm perverse and anything I got from you I stole or made up. Woa. On the first day stars filled in for snow and the moonlight was a dream I didn't have any time for. I am sick of loving and sick of you and sliced open my own womb and crawled back. The pale horizon is azure and a savage radiant blood. Yes it is. Lady come and come again, yea. Come and Come again. This is a fragrant tomb. Is all it is. A fragrant fucking tomb and we're just weary and poetic and stretch mark in the wilted heart. Jeez. Ah. I see all these useless heads. Ulterior ultimate demons of puerile shadows. Hard bones on timber, on the shelf. I'm an idle chance. You make it out like it's sheer fucking folly. I'll caress your shadow and set them free. See this fist, clenched against the thigh? It's a conjunction with probability. I like it when you are a wraith. I love it when you're a wraith. Mysteries howl out. Bleed into your eyes. Bodies are always a matter of brinksmanship, on edge and drones. Insurrections babe, insurrections. As IF. As IF. Utterly lost and lonely. I laugh at the obituaries. Your rigid frame. Your bitter princess of reefs. A flash and a flasher in the park, during a rainstorm. A flash and flasher in the fucked park, during a rainstorm. All go home. All fall down. All drink a coffee and shimmer. Shimmer. Shimmer. I like it when you shimmer. The old woman's got sores all over her face. And is a siren gone bad. She never thought this would happen to her. What a mess. What a bitch of a mess. What's this then? What's this then? A limit on the infinite you cunt. Well I'm vertigo and you're a slap on the ass. I'm vertigo and you're a slap on the ass. Anxious? Are you? Anxious? I might have existed. Might have begun and ended. And reckoned. And lit up. Fat chance, fat chance babe. What's this then? What's this then? A limit on the infinite you cunt. Well I'm vertigo and you're a slap on the ass. I'm vertigo and you're a slap on the ass. Anxious? Are you? Anxious? I might have existed. Might have begun and ended. And reckoned. And lit up. Fat chance, fat chance babe. She's asleep. I drugged her. I placed my jewelless finger under her nightgown. Is she quivering? There's a deep sigh. Hitch her up. This is like how a bright finch might lie. Her belly's a snowfield. There is a forest near. I am lacerated. What is the point of my mouth beneath your unappeased thighs. Demons wrung you dark. I have a sad iniquity. A sad iniquity. Chasms are fresh and vibrant. Chance. Play. Whole flesh and torments. The great madness. The deep sigh. The growing still. I'm growing still. Don't tell me you're a fucking poet. Don't tell me anything. The polka is a black suit. The midnight rags. Yours. Mine. Hers. Three bitches and the price of a grimace and mockery. The old phantoms are usually family. The old phantoms are usually fucked families. Stinginess can hide in poems, songs, philosophical musings. The roads are decked in great bohemia. The pubs are Anacreon laughs. The beer is the ornamental staff and the Byzantine rite. O lash me darlings and kill me and send my head downriver, give my head to the downriver. Maddened by the absolute I'll always owe you too much, far too fucking much. And don't be afraid. Don't be afraid. I'm not devout and die well. Where is the last line and will we ever read it? I'm on the bridge over the station and feel the rain on my face and there's the terrible alarming silence. I wonder if I could ever ask you for your truth which would be of course your poem. The gulls are haunting the grey skies and have no mothers and are roman. You are lost in your own casino with your governess and chips. Where will our inanimations emerge? Who will we be worn against and for whom? Will we live on before we die or are we just the perfect blue vase standing naked on the mantle in the clear light from the slanting window? I am my own corner of the old room dedicated to myself. My soul is not in repose and never was. Where you begin and where I end is the beginning of my quartet. The door is a peach and the mermaids are in every bar I ever darken and drink dry. As I come to you its a hollow man hypnotised. There's nothing said but in the quiet movement of the night I hear you like a squirrel hears the autumn and everything's urgent. You are one of those lines I can't forget and never can forget. I recently separate and do so every moment. See me against the towns that go back into history. Where we come from is our lucid pain. If light falls over the shattered hours you insist on a sultry early hour and I am waiting. I am never too close. Will we live on before we die or are we just the perfect blue vase standing naked on the mantle in the clear light from the slanting window? I would have joined in circles our clumsy wrinkles of affection and afterwards listen like creatures of summer heat. But this is autumn and thunder and rain constellates comets of vortexes. The world will be brought to its knees. There are better ways of putting things. What really matters isn't in anything said or sung, neither the wisdom of the calm nor the hysterical cries of adoration. These are like lost ceremonies. All poetry is that you idiot. Will we live on before we die or are we just the perfect blue vase standing naked on the mantle in the clear light from the slanting window? Will we live on before we die or are we just the perfect blue vase standing naked on the mantle in the clear light from the slanting window? We are gone under the sea, under the hill, the dark. Will we live on before we die or are we just the perfect blue vase standing naked on the mantle in the clear light from the slanting window? It's mighty strange the roses that visit me in the morning. And the raving art of the cruel hands and their reprimands. It's stranger when there's a kind of rapture When death's a sole reverie, and she's there in the corner drinking beer. What is the point of being serene when there are heads bloody and broke outside? And the rain is mumbling on an earth idly turning cold and sad and desolate. My childhood seems a pure blue. My childhood seems a pure blue. Can you remember its terrible cemeteries Still waiting for us even then? Can you go back and crawl into the porcelain skies and know that childhoods are idle now and the beasts have come? Through nights the solitary and the terrified lash out but no one is listening and no one feels their raw hands and their eyes are crystals and smash against reality. So I think it's going to be a long long time before we turn back to life and I think we're going to need to hold on to each other, hold on, to each other with no restraint. oo Who comes wearing flames that are too dark to see and hotter than any fire? The ghost of a flea is cunning and here. The coarse souls are hungry and flashing indifference. The coarse souls are flashing indifference. And the cruelty's like a dusk that bleeds into us through our skins and all that's left is an appetite, an appetite for fucks sake. So I think it's going to be a long long time before we turn back to life and I think we're going to need to hold on to each other, hold on, to each other with no restraint. oo Save the tears and save the cries of abomination because all's confusion and all's a suzerain low world, it is a low low world now. My wings are featherless and I can't fly away, my wings are featherless and I can't fly away. What we are risking is eternity. What we are risking is eternity. I need to be gorged with good light. I need to be gorged with good light. But infinity's gone and there is no more blue sky, yea, infinity's gone and there is no blue sky. So I think it's going to be a long long time before we turn back to life and I think we're going to need to hold on to each other, hold on, to each other with no restraint. I love these sacred angers I love the lips that burn with vast burdens. I love the flesh's secret terrors. And the cruel girl with her anxious tears. I call to the nymph that draws me nonetheless I call to the swarm of desires murmuring like bees And the gold and ash of her nakedness Where her sadness and silence is her soul. I wait for the rising up for the feast time I wait for the cries of some vague intoxication I wait up in the mourning lamps of midnight past And the tangling horns of a dawns chorus . My kiss will be the kiss of the faithless. My time will be a disturbance for its own end. And you'll come because no common illusion Will seduce you or coax your dreams. You stare through the window to the winter light. You gaze at the throat of the autumn's breath. You dream and then weep and then dream some more. And know some pure thigh your shut eye creates. Your kiss will be the kiss of the faithless. Your time will be a disturbance for its own end. And I'll come because no common illusion Will seduce me or coax my dreams. And Suck on the grape-flesh and blow out the light. Play as if under heaven as a secret friend. Take in hand by hand the fake confusion And live like a mystery, like the only mystery. Your kiss will be the kiss of the faithless. Your time will be a disturbance for its own end. And I'll come because no common illusion Will seduce me or coax my dreams.