When Will The Strife Be Done? - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

do you see the black mould on the walls ? and my babies cough doesn't heal and i sometimes buy beans for the bread and other times i put on the radiator and stay warm for a while. There's no way the damp isn't rising with the crime rate but it's money that gets you love and strength let alone respect. I can be a stoic bitch but on the whole it's always felt better to blame the living and the dead and my curses ring out over the city like they are scorched years and all my youth gone up in flames of despair and devastation. I hate these rich spanking new red assed candy apple types in their big cars and their guilty suits and their heroic children whilst I take the bus on a foggy day and on late nights my child she sits sullen and grippingly detailed in her despondency and I'm poetic and still. Why do you let the children suffer? All it would take is a little more money And I could buy her the food and the clothes The books and the good luck But you don't even weep and you never come close enough to see what's really real do you? I was having a sort of symbolic reimbursement in the pound shop and got a good deal on the biscuits. I also got tea bags. Yes, Everything's symbolic even when not intended. So every day in captivity of these landlords bleeding us dry is a matter of having some room to think in. But I hear they're closing down the fucking library so where am I going to get the books from eh? This is why I burst into tears round about four o'clock. I wonder if I wasn't so black I might have been treated better but I look at the skinny white pussy down the hall and she's not my competition. How the heart aches. Why do you let the children suffer? All it would take is a little more money And I could buy her the food and the clothes The books and the good luck But you don't even weep and you never come close enough to see what's really real do you? Why do you let the children suffer All it would take is a little more money And I could buy her the food and the clothes The books and the good luck But you don't even weep and you never come close enough to see what's really real do you? I'm into revenge films and make them in my head every day. I want blood over all the walls. I'm meaningful and not dead yet and my kiddies are across a threshold where I have to pray before I travel. Where's the money, where's the money? If you can afford all that why am I living so bad. I'm twenty years older than I really am whilst all you rich fuckers spend to get twenty years younger. It just isn't justice is it and my dreams are cold tombs and ice? Why do you let the children suffer All it would take is a little more money And I could buy her the food and the clothes The books and the good luck But you don't even weep and you never come close enough to see what's really real do you? People are dying into spectacles that are explicitly about being poor. So casually and immediately and naturalistically and funnily poor. So it's about redistributing enough so everyone gets to live again. so she gets fucked cos she's poor but the guy he's no intentions but bad intentions so she gets an abortion whilst people think there's a debate to have and then she finds the rent's gone up and the place is a dump so she works overtime and is tired all the time and then there are guys who seemed friendly at first and fun and had some money but were liars and disappear and when they don't they beat her ass until she's black and blue and some of her bones are less well set than before and there's a fear now that has grown like a secret ivy and her rage is all tied in with this history and where is her mother when she never asks and she turns her eyes to the stars and the nights and then rages against the cracked mirrors which are anyone and everyone she ever meets because they show her who she could have been and what she really wanted but she knows she knows she'll never make it. So when she tells you to fuck yourself she's not joking and is blistering and any deals will fall apart. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. All options seem so far off the table this doesn't seem less than a kind of bleak science fiction where the future has run into problems and got cancelled. These aren't robots and the AI isn't in the pipes nor are there unfilmable moments, just ones where we know without money you're rock bottom. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. And now many a time you can see her as a nightjar spinning on warm evenings or whispering her screams into the winter cold of the city like she's a century. Like she's time. Like she's something across the abyss you all dread because once she was as wise as you but was unlucky. her eyes fill with the blood of years she's losing and the vastness of her strange hinterland and her derangements. It's lonely being poor and impossible to move and you're always hungry and tired and frightened by your own levels of despair as well as everything else. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. I guess she'll never want to do anything in the dark ever again. Dark is the tide and dark the gaunt kitchen. Here is where they gulp their tears and live a terrible poetry that's locked up in desolation and despair. The doors won't lock and the landlord's absent and uncouth and vicious in that bored disaffected way. Hunger for bread is just a phrase but it has a terrible meaning for those of us outside the indulgent world's end. Why do the trees seem so cold and lonely from the window and why doesn't the hall light work. Who is lurking out on the stairwell and the noise is weather-tortured land sounds like the veins of the old man. You will pause for breath because breath is expensive , too much for some these days. Everyone is stranded on the shore and the storm won't cease. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. Everyone is stranded on the shore and the storm won't cease. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. Everyone is stranded on the shore and the storm won't cease. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. On the night bus the youths seem blank and frozen and unfriendly and ill. The older ones are scarcely there and where is happiness and joy? Everything is set as if in a painting and nothing cheers the heart. A young guy pleads to get on and sits through the lens of tears. All though history the exploited die of poverty and the bruises are there again. October is burning us all down. There are people and fields of silence as if only thin shy souls can begin to lift their heads. We seem to be a last outpost of the last time. Everyone is stranded on the shore and the storm won't cease. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. we're living in hours of hunger and boredom and poverty unlamented falls around our shoulders and we shiver, we shiver and hold on for love. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. If we make it through this there'll be a hell of a bleakness. she renewed herself daily because she needed the cash. She let the rich guy torture her because movement and change and bruises all heal and he has enough dosh to see her through. He is careless and a field of silence when it comes to his soul of course. he's a fucker. She has a meagre hearth and he has a Porsche car and is beginning his reign. He's not even ugly. Rich types don't have to be because they can afford their gym memberships and products and diets. They don't live in the cold with little to eat except fat food that kills you years before you might have hoped. People are burned down slowly when there's no money. What's the solution? Well money you idiot. Give up the money. Or abolish money and get to lament together shoulder to shoulder. greed shows the naked shamelessness of money. greed debases eloquence. honour is what you sacrifice for riches and reason stoned to the mediocre . There is an expanding fear and a savage disaster and clever hopes all expired. Give up the money. Or abolish money and get to lament together shoulder to shoulder. greed shows the naked shamelessness of money. greed debases eloquence. honour is what you sacrifice for riches and reason stoned to the mediocre . There is an expanding fear and a savage disaster and clever hopes all expired. Give up the money. Or abolish money and get to lament together shoulder to shoulder. greed shows the naked shamelessness of money. greed debases eloquence. honour is what you sacrifice for riches and reason stoned to the mediocre . There is an expanding fear and a savage disaster and clever hopes all expired. Who calculates this darkness as being good? Who really likes the offense? Stop obsessing about your private life when we're drowning in waves of fear and anger and uncertainty is never asleep and never dies. I smoke but it's expensive and not easy. I fumble around in the litter bins of course. I have a narrow window of opportunities and no where to live. I know now how psychopathic the god money is. And remember when evil is done evil will be done in return. These are cold nights and lonely and my courage is all used up. Give up the money. Or abolish money and get to lament together shoulder to shoulder. greed shows the naked shamelessness of money. greed debases eloquence. honour is what you sacrifice for riches and reason stoned to the mediocre . There is an expanding fear and a savage disaster and clever hopes all expired. Give up the money. Or abolish money and get to lament together shoulder to shoulder. greed shows the naked shamelessness of money. greed debases eloquence. honour is what you sacrifice for riches and reason stoned to the mediocre . There is an expanding fear and a savage disaster and clever hopes all expired. Dreamed of that time we were bound to no state or cause Dreamed of that inheritance that went beyond pride Dreamed of the times when we gave and didn't refuse Dreamed of the hour of the day when no streams are dry and no hearts were broken and no words eclipsed by loss. So when will that hour be ours? When will the strife be done? When will the imagination rewrite the dying fall? So when will that hour be ours? When will the strife be done? Is this the last time for questions? The last time to turn and cross the line? The last way to originality and freedom from the captivity and compressions? Is this where your aviator shades are suddenly funny? And your unspoken connections with money? Is this how we find a way to unthaw the heart and get essential? So when will that hour be ours? When will the strife be done? When will the imagination rewrite the dying fall? Dreamed of the two fuses slowly burning down, Dreamed of naturalistic actors and being delightful and ravaged, Dreamed of bleach blonde astrology and a shared ancestry for all, Dreamed of barstool warming floozies in a daydream out of Ava Gardner So when will that hour be ours? When will the strife be done? When will the imagination rewrite the dying fall? And now the sun is setting and the day is closing down. And now the sun is setting and the day is closing down. There's a theme song playing that's slow and sad and strong There's a theme song playing that's slow and sad and strong And the dream's not for darkness yes it's not for the night. The dream's not for darkness and it sure aint for the night And I'm thinking of my lost love and know some things aren't yet right. So when will that hour be ours? When will the strife be done? When will the imagination rewrite the dying fall? So when will that hour be ours? When will the strife be done? When will the imagination rewrite the dying fall? Tonight the frost will fasten on her lips and will accompany the burying party in the morning. The police flock, pause and renew their vigilance but even the soft hearted can't do much. Air shudders with a wandering death and where are the tears tonight? Where are the candles in the windows shining? Where are the prayers to the skies? Where are the loves awakening? The sun's a mockery some days and taunts the thousands and their pains. The wars are fought over titanic bets and the pitiful blessed live less and less. The eyes seem more bright of those who lived before this world was born. If we could look on each other as if beloved could your blood stay cold and would we be less betrayed? and where are the tears tonight? Where are the candles in the windows shining? Where are the prayers to the skies? Where are the loves awakening? and where are the tears tonight? Where are the candles in the windows shining? Where are the prayers to the skies? Where are the loves awakening? Is ours just the hysteria of the dying and the ruined and the sad? Should we all stay calm in the face of doom and never once even think of being drastic? Are none of us now capable of being Hamlet or Lear or Ophelia or Cordelia and play out our tragedies? It seems a damned shame, a fucked up damned shame. I shall love the one who finds that in them, as if living before this world was born. and where are the tears tonight? Where are the candles in the windows shining? Where are the prayers to the skies? Where are the loves awakening? Aren't we too sick of all of this to keep on keeping on in the same old manner? Are we not old enough now to be mad? I'm going to stand on my wagonet and scream and get the drunk journalist to stop spouting his fucked up lies and glitter truth to the pain. We have fallen but want to stand again, and there is the money if you learn how to climb inward and feel like ancient melodic players did. and where are the tears tonight? Where are the candles in the windows shining? Where are the prayers to the skies? Where are the loves awakening? and where are the tears tonight? Where are the candles in the windows shining? Where are the prayers to the skies? Where are the loves awakening? there's no single story and there's no single way. There's no single neighbour and there's no single advance. There's broken happy and unbroken too. There's the good and the fat and the good and the thin. There's the time to question and the time to will. So hey, and where are the tears tonight? Where are the candles in the windows shining? Where are the prayers to the skies? Where are the loves awakening? and where are the tears tonight? Where are the candles in the windows shining? Where are the prayers to the skies? Where are the loves awakening? come on babe, come on babe, come on babe, let's strip it down. She sits in one of the dives believing the whispers of the legendary double bed. The music roars and there are warnings and lies and no comforts. This road is a long knuckled thumb and all these who live out in their cardboard are dismissed as being without character. She smokes in the night and looks scorched . The windows are stained by moonlight and the dangerous flood of history. She is like a closed piano. What is it circulating with the disappearing herring gulls in the moonlight? Anger and fear. Death smells in apathetic graves. This is what happens when you have nothing. You don't suffer it if you have money and the average day. It's like we're lost in the haunted wood and the monsters and ghosts rave in madness And children are all afraid by the age of eight Beleaguered by the same negation and despair as those who guard over them. Who is it rising out of the underground and are any of them true? Are you living that ethical life? Or is it all depending on your bank balance and an ability to love alone. Turn back to your dying. Turn back to your dying. Turn back to your dying. Turn back to your dying . Love is dying babe, love is dying babe, love is dying babe, and nothing's happening not one thing nothing. Who will be released and can we find a solution? and is anyone concentrating? This is a life hard as a script by Schrader, as hard and violent and cynical. The bedroom roof leaks and the banging of the pipes is a species of distemper and reality. Count what you have and hold out your hand. When you put your hand out its a sort of contract to the heart. Your candour is overwhelming and the money isn't enough it means you'll just have to choose between the meal or the roof again. If choices cross griefs with an invariable heaven then sunlight the next morning is a conclusion worth reaching. No one poor is eager for the future nor eloquent. Their eyes are chipped like saucers in the rough cafe where we drink in a huge and birdless silence. Turn back to your dying. Turn back to your dying. Turn back to your dying. Turn back to your dying. Love is dying babe, love is dying babe, love is dying babe, and nothing's happening not one thing nothing. It used to be a call of pride that no one actually starved. It used to matter, but now its just a dull rumour of some other war, another place, and poignant. All the poor are dying worse than before, and yet nothing happens. Give me some money and stop me having to cringe in our bunkers and holes and tents. Stop me dying here and like this. Turn back to your dying. Turn back to your dying. Turn back to your dying. Turn back to your dying . Love is dying babe, love is dying babe, love is dying babe, and nothing's happening not one thing nothing. I'm the sullen hall again and that dead smile. I know it. Your dead smile. It isn't grief. Just fear and hopelessness.