Songs More Banal Than Usual - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
Ghosts of the Silver Screen (2).mp3
Sleeve Notes
Dentro a quella cava etc Your feelings are venerated as witnesses to miracles. Or mirrors of the exempla. Or God’s dealings, or Fate, or some other tomfoolery. Stop the bloody glosses will you? You’re too full of superstitious wonder. Attend to other claims. Repaint your frescos. Find the earlier century. You are no longer the virgin you were nor the expelled nor the forbidden. What you hear with your own ears is what everyone hears eventually, even if you run away. Did you come back? Did you empty out? Did you sleep well? I have been expecting a second child for years. Crawling on my stomach and grinding my teeth I go to the printing house. I finished my course in cryptology. Cenni di Pepi’s the one oxhead I’d say had the whole horizon. You look swell in your new chiffon dress with ruffles. Digging at sunset turns the shovel red and the flood meadow seems to be a sufferer with its mosquitoes, plasmodium blood streams, lilac bushes, burning sands, ditches and emotional body between two rivers like a crucifix of humanity in the vast fresco we saw in the Upper Church of San Francesco and all that. Your panels are lively I’ll give you that. Imagine bursting into flames. Wear your forage cap. Some physical loads verge on elsewhere and another kind. Listen carefully. Your emotional level is essentially Gothic, a sublime obscurity. Why take for granted you know what you’re feeling? Why so certain it’s all what it feels it is? Iconographically there’s a vivid sequence here. Remember when the ground was firmer? You wanted sleep. Other girls sang. You roused and encircled yourself. The little bones are the ones that get buried and then lost. When I saw you you cast a shadow of an immense octagon. Your signs extended vertically from the uppermost to the lowest of the four registers. I had medications, serums from town, a swaddling band, ash and dreams in a haystack or swamp. Laterally you lived out obscure panels along three of the eight fields. Your terrible scenes start with open palms towards the blessed but your tears were the hopeless expressive gestures of the damned. Do you contemplate your fate with ineffable sorrow? I have never been afraid of any missions they sent me save this. I have been three months old. I have been the same temperature to make you cry. I have been rubbed with salt. These rashes will clear. I heard that you went to the forest each day to shout. There is a desolation to your intent. ‘I think a spirit, one of my blood, weeps for the guilt that costs so much down there.’ I read that as if I could be immortal. Or young. Or gain altitude. Villages are burnt. You should participate in executions. You are an epitome. Join my torments.