Sad Sade - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

Signs of life Take the bread. Avoid the water. Avoid the mothers. Avoid talk. What is this unquiet land? Trace the dreams. Trace the obscure instruments. All the children are dead by nightfall. Sewing machines are rare. Use your umbrellas and count graveyards. One woman they took her tongue. It’s in the scullery, in a jar on a shelf, & everything leads to the ground and grief. I never sleep. Number of enigmas here – 62. Number of integrities – 7. I wish. You wish. They wish. Inconsistency is the undergrowth. Cover her eyes. Switch mouths. Play the cubist. I have invented a way of being present Rimbaud never suspected. This is a place of calm audacity. My lucid ironies are gratuitous. We all look the same in the rain and mud and eroticism. My canned chance has no need to be anywhere. The superstitious leave. The philosophers fail to find pure behaviours. Machines always break down. That door hides me. Did you steal it? Did you see it? Did you sleep behind it? These mental processes are automatic destiny and silent delirium. Seek strange bodies in petrified space, dazzling as aphorisms. Our roots are hearts. Voodoo chimeras speculate on a scaffold of codes. Baudelaire’s a prophet, Rimbaud an alchemist, the rest are visiting the shadows of the Dead Sea. Once you’ve pruned life then find nocturnal flesh and bathe in it. We go on and die. Yours are mangled promises, mine amnesties. Do justice to the mortal soul. Live thirty years before striking out. Are you jet lagged and wake up in the night? We are simple and full of powerless delinquencies. Ecstatic truth is fabrication and style and catastrophe and walking and disaster and rage and dries up and hell and darkness and creeps about against sophisms and against the clean thoughts and against esteem and against mere fact and refuges. I stole a new image, a burst of laughter, an owl, a gap between hypnosis and agency. What I wanted was complete adherence so there was room for rebellion buried deep inside. Take care to cherish how far hate can take us. The imbecilic tracts of omens and elevation are mysterious because we don’t know how they work. You never shut up about your lessons of darkness. Everything is elevated. The land is steaming. False scholars blind the world. The prophets are extinct. I am stuck in the world’s abyss. I’ve been stuck for 64 of them. I wish I’d learnt the trick of levitation. What will save us? Facades. Wheels. Marbles. Spasms. Frustration. Dismemberment. Hysteria. Yokes. Sorcery. Ants. Agitation. Skin. Pilgrims with fire and life and preceding nights. Decapitation. You shot my narration 7 times. You said you wanted to sink into the immaterial. You wouldn’t tolerate deferment. You disliked the throng of my episodes. You redeemed arousal. You whispered whilst monkeys bit with an inexhaustible spirit. You argued against paying attention there, and there, and there. Now we sit together with eyes in their natural state in broad daylight. We are an entity exceeding its immediate known quantity. What daylight looks like is a murderous truth. Love’s a huge thistle. The usual way is to create monotony via the axis of the fold. Be hands free. Get the world round your mouth and suck it off. Botticelli painted bad landscapes and disliked them. My frottage is irritability. Under no circumstances will I ever hire you. We are back where we started. This is business. Expect rain.