Tarantino Baby - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

Some nights I'm awake in my dome to Sunset Boulevard west of la brea and it makes a difference. King Kong, Bogart, Harlow, Karloff's Frankenstein, Whisky a Go Go, London Fog and Pandora's Box and some old boy slouched in Ben Franklin's Coffee shop before dreaming up the Tiffany Theatre. It's a head flick panarama and Frank Zappa's 200 motels ties in with my lack of authentic ground. What gets forbidden when what you really need to be is stoned to appreciate a life.? I think of her as a callback theme coming in costume like its theme night featuring a double feature Joe then Taxi Driver. Who did she fake herself as? Susan Sarandon, obviously. Who she fucked after midnight in a anguished attempt to pay attention. She's like a murderers dark secret, a sense of purpose and righteousness cancelled out by blowhards and the cultured man's guilt. In some frames the father executes the daughter and that's harsh and ugly. When she enters any room its as a force of nature or nothing. She won't say fucked up things and will crack up like she's mimicking Norman Wexler's dialogue in the 70's as if alleviating the superior repulsion she's feeling. What is funny is whatever gets crossed in the storm. There are certain scenes when bad shit happens and all you can afterwards is ask a bystander what they saw. And then ask: but were they sad? To which these would always insist: Oh man, they were very sad.' All guys are just gorillas in suits and the way to be with them is naked. I suppose what I thought back then was how glad I was that I could tag along. Of course it got serious later. It was always night or a bar or adult time with doubles. You seemed to care about movies more than talking Candice Bergen into sex, but only that once. I'm like an iconic freeze frame ending that is too obscure to be understood. Well what it means in me is what it means in Butch Cassidy moron. I died. Fuck. What's rolling through? Mash, Where Eagles Dare, The Godfather, Dirty Harry, The French Connection, The Owl and the Pussycat, Bullitt, Carnal Knowledge, The Fox, Isadora, Sunday Bloody Sunday, Klute, Goodbye Columbus, Model shop, Diary of a Mad Housewife. I Love You Alice B Toklas, Summer of 42, Pretty Maids All In A Row, Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice, Pussy Galore, Goldfinger and Vanishing Point and all the time who the fuck was I supposed to be kidding? How is anyone supposed to live a life these days? Subtextually is the clever arsed answer. Well that's funny but also unhelpful and a way of closing down a perfectly serious question. I went to buy a pint of milk and there's a small guy sitting by the side of the supermarket like he has eagle claws of poverty going right through his chest and I feel I'm being suckered and in a trailer for a film I've never going to see. So what? She has hot lips the one I'm thinking about being beyond the beyond in a good way. I like the way there's always a striptease in my head and a house that screamed and other nights that understand the nature of anxiety and emotional panic we all carry around. The scariest things are trite on one level and cute on another. Which is why when I call anything cute it contains just enough of the unexpectedly tragic to be upsetting for a long while. What amazes me is the thought that some people's true nature is trauma. I see that as an everlasting thought, heavier than theology or sweetbacks or cocktail waitresses who always seem on the brink of saying yesss. What rolls my eyes and gets me talking is the bathtub scene which is how you managed to erase sitcom. So where are those days honey, and why does it feel so much darker now and sadder and less than what was promised? I guess when I watched the French Connection years ago I assumed I was the french dude with the beard. I listen to the radio and keep track of the sun. Every day's a kind of last Wednesday I guess. My version of Superfly I guess was also Come Back Charleston Blue, Asphalt Jungle, Cotton Comes to Harlem, the Mack and Jim Brown doing his mutha who killed his brutha suck my fuckin dick thing. Outside Morrisons' on the Broadway there was him and Richard Roundtree. Eating out of a box was Charles Bronson. Paul Newman on a winning streak with a plastic bag makes an iconic move with his deliveroo guilt. This is where the movie stars end up eventually with remorse and knowing the void better than the dead. When I look out of the shopping centre and listen I do it all with Spanish subtitles. I have never felt so tired and lost as when I was asked to drape masculinity to cover another kind of reality. It has been the done thing ever since. I mean, there are guys who can read magazines and texts and break apart carburetors and talk engine displacement , beast taming, deep sleep but that's not me. I'm just aware that you aren't like that either. She makes lives like Steve McQueen made movies, as the movie star, hallucinating that role in all your roles, and coming out on top. The last thing I would do to you was try and plough through you, your innate nobility stamping me down into vice and your haunted looks and shrouds. Did you think I would flee from you? Did you feel fear when you sleep alone, or hear that I do? I am engulfed in rising tedium and a faint dream, and our twilights will be lukewarm if, stunned, our mysterious connection is cut. What are we? A cool connection? Yea, a cool connection, a zeitgeist slow-boil Hugh Heffner with Jacqueline Bisset kind of motion picture which hasn't got a memorable story but has a wonderful pose you can taste after dark lies. Let my kisses release you, babe, let my kisses release you. There's a lot of emphasis put on staying alive and being kept alive, like we're all to be in the guarded room with hit men coming out of the youthful landscape into the slender line of the hotel. I like it when you smile when you realise we're making up the plot as we go along. Where did you see yourself when you went out with your double? You know as well as I do that whatever we do doesn't matter so long as we stay cool as hell like bells and their clear chimes, or the water's ice and reeds like your eyelashes. The rope tied is secular and groovy and loose in its atmosphere and jazz. Hell you're as good a time as it gets, like having coffee in coffee electric off the broadway and we sit with brian ferry being the hip vibe and our spot-on extra. anyone seeing us would have heard nothing and it wouldn't have mattered because they'd have known everything. it could have been like something shot by don siegal in bullit, a dynamite style to match yours. you live out like you're shooting a movie not a schedule, know what I mean? With you there's always the lucid crescent left behind with the curves of your smile and ass and how your soul arcs from heaven into pantheons of antonioni, peckinpah style. here's what i want to say about you: you're a minimalist perfection, you fill frames with a character who is pure being and don't need to act anything more than that, your own worst enemy is you of course and you're great when you could bitch me out but you don't because in your eyes you're seeing enough to know what's necessary, and you engage at a level that looks like you're as cool as a reptile but you're a seething heat like inside your power there's something even stronger inside, like it might hang you somewhere if it didn't stay languid and distressed and amorous with your tears... what you are is ironic and indolent and straight and hard working and fantastical and impassive and stricken and raving and sullen and shy and a wilderness, yes, a wilderness, a wilderness that's timeless and doesn't ask for vindication. you're almost genteel, almost, and working within a scheme, almost, and compulsive to the point that everything gets to go high built for speed real. you're a physical performance, a fleeing distress, and the kind of wild night at heaven's foot. i'm your montage, don siegal style, like we're throwing ourselves through roofs, taking punches, cracking boats in half and watching them sink, shoot a fist fight or crosscut a shoot-out, and when we talk it's not like other conversations which are action. because ours are violence. you're like a surgeon and we end up like any old odd couple - peter lorre and sydney greenstreet in the verdict let's say. well let's say that and anyway what you have is a kind of self declared brand of justice and you're rogue. yea, that's you. you're rogue like Inspector Callaghan and you even have the cool face of careless sadness, silent immensity, hands that never tire, mourning towards an obscure downfall. souls sing others are full of the life glittering evil of innate torment. what i saw was how sad your flesh was. this october and here comes the lowering sun faithfully sighing chilled furrowed in a yellow trail and desolate luminosity. how many beers did we drink before our souls rose up into a night of rain and a stylistic edge? I have moments and once ended up in the city with a strange dream following me around covered in verbs and no matter where I went it would hound me like your angel eyes in the fulvid agony of the rained on roads, traffic jammed and senile like an immense strange accusation. you swore you'd swallow the stars and i imagined words were follies no better than relics. i once asked you to wear a skirt and you did. where is desire and love and intensity and now at last something burns, burns in saliva and the old earth. greet me as a cruel birth, press me your lips, draw prophecies from the very nature of your fears like i was the supreme bodysnatcher wanting my cake and eating it too. i'll be your dirty harry if you let me. oh my. I have an era and so do you. I can't get over your wild hips and crazy manhunter lips and zodiac breasts and lone sniper moves and smacking ass and I know what you're thinking... did he fire six shots or only five? You should kill me. Kill me babe. And then kill me all over again. All over. All over. And since the arms of doubt various people somewhere else want to be that very person , down there alone, abstaining from accidents, even true ones, preferring to draw on their own essences than chance. There are rewards for faithful rewards and the banging of abandoned houses and the shutters a raucous din. But I recall older stories and fondness and habit aren't love. Aren't even close to love. I'm in the business of offending the whole country, like coming in on a railway distressed and starting that the point of departure. I went looking for a real person and couldn't find one anywhere. I'm Richard Roundtree's John Shaft at this time, a sleek executioner. I saw how you knock the fuck out of me. You're a kind of future shock I wasn't wiping off but looking to make a double feature with. I'll be your 44 Magnum, your 44 Magnum babe, a subtext and sometimes text. Yea. I'm in your crosshairs and you're in mine. And we can both continue to chew on our hotdogs whilst we make the derangements happen. What I understand is that moment that you can't be forgiven for your past. I'm an empty weapon as well though. Troubled and troubling like a mocked auteur persona and not a proper lead character. If I was the prisoner you'd be rooting for the warden. Vindictive ladies I'll taint you despite your taunts. Somehow. I'm the new law for the new crimes. And you are too. We're the forward looking glance, the innocence we all lost when our nightmares came home to roost. I'm as nervous as Lizabeth Scott was before Bogart blew her brains out when you're about. And I love that. I love that. She was in Loving You with Elvis. So now you know. Now you fucking know. You know if we are anything at all we're the wild bunch and deliverance double bill. So now you know I'm bragging. I'm bragging about you babe and you don't even dig me. Yea, you're sexy as hell, sexy as hell and that brings out my religious impulse and speeches in an improper tone. Sexy as hell, yea, sexy as hell.My cigars are Dutch Masters not Cohibas. Dutch Masters not Cohibas. I never met Roman Polanski. Nor seen Five Easy Pieces. Never drank a Brandy Alexander. Never drank a Harvey Wallbanger. Never. What do people think? That machines are gonna fail? Machines are gonna fail? No shit. No fucking way. No fucking way. What people say is that we all live with an idea of ourselves. Well I haven't got one of those so I don't live up to myself at all. So where does that leave us? Well I'm not drenched in self-love. Not in self-loathing either. You should stop trying to bait me and look to your own novice eyes. And some lines we say like we're in a movie because only in a movie do certain lines ever get to be spoken. Things like: do I like my life? And then when you said something it was like real. Like: well do you? do you like your life? well that's like a cottonmouth talking to a river rat. It's an intense thing with death and doom and hostility which are always enclosed inside loving feelings and veers towards something like a mind fuck and ancient ritual and when I look at you you're looking back with the sort of frenzy that comes with a pretty mouth. Well now you have it why your sense of longing and trauma and anxiety and dread and effortless isolation drill me and makes me want to hold you tight hold you tight and say stupid things like I love you I want I love you I want you whilst it sounds like burying a secret in the long cold ground because when you refused that's as buried as it gets. So my love stories are always complete as love stories. I'm stronger than just an idea but not much stronger. And you're the witness to that, so rape me girl and have done with it like dry and personal and somehow wrenching. So maybe Bogdanovich and Walter Hill would do our movie and you'd be the woman who kills the guy you've had to fuck to get away and is now dashing through Texas to the Mexico border with every murdering bastard hot on your hot ass. All's set for a lousy ending I guess. and what makes a lousy ending is the set-up that doesn't fit and a feeling of discontent like it wasn't cultivated right, or it should have been all said in another language. what I remember was you being scattered over the landscape. You come on buzzing like a hornet and I'd console you and you were always beautiful and then you'd purr. You never purred in fact. No fucking way are you going to purr just because of kiss ass. You can be a notorious bombshell. I thought of you like Ali Magraw and fell for you and saw you as competition but only in the sense that you can be as trashy as me which isn't being trash. I'd beat the crap out of anyone if you asked me to. I'd find a way even if goliath. You should hear that in the right tormented way. because everything is tormented. and if you are going to shoot me down then I know you'll do it in slow motion like Arthur Penn , slow motion like Arthur Penn. Jeez. I'm so hot on you it's a Slim Pickins happy ending even thought its so fucking tragic and dark I can hardly leave my own bedclothes and play out a better part. It's that kind of a happy ending, one that snags you walking tall and sits you by the window looking out into the dark rain filled night by Tuffnell Park station and the lights are shining like iron crosses in the heart and the mood is a paragon opposite of morals and good will, is something tougher than the other people, including the giant guy with his mobile in his hand like a dick and his casual deceit. All this material is fashioned to strengths I never knew I had and never knew you had. I sometimes think I'm a monster who you might still root for like Richard Boone, say, in the Tall T and Hombre. I guess some days I'm folksy. And you're a force and a charm. And legs to die for. And inevitable in some kind of hopeless destiny. Like pulp and art combined in a liminal territory that goes further and is a sanctuary without safety but instead Bunuel and his whipped women. Mine's a wager of fear, is Casanova and Byron and Camille and a darker version of The getaway. More's at stake than sex appeal, more's at stake than sex appeal, more's at stake than sex appeal, and we're looking over our shoulders forever after for the heat, the heat, the damn fucking heat. yea. if they don't make it together they don't make it. Wow. If you throw in the towel than it was truly all for nothing. no matter what else happens, no more about him. No matter what else happens no more no more no more about him. And that's us, backed by a sea of garbage and trash-eating crows and all we have is emotional content. All we have. Right there. Right here comes Parker whose a cold emotionless bastard who has a code and a profound sense of being appalled and gets people out of jams or rights wrongs or goes after greedy former contacts. he ties up and gags a secretary in an office he's robbing so she doesn't get out of it alive but that wasn't his agenda. But you can think of Almadovar's Matador where they're getting off on gore and I'm always in the pack for racy sexy seventies style erotica or the eighties derangements of Lynch, Ferrara, Cronenberg, and some where along the line we lost complicated to being sympathetic. So you are complicated and don't even look out for redemption. Which is where me and you and Bill Murray part company because he always does by the end of all his movies. I'll be Lee Marvin if you will. I'll be Lee Marvin if you will too. Point Blank, baby. Point blank. You've got a getaway face, like, its on the run and has its secrets and will be chased forever. You're not running away though, you're running at them. Anna Karina and Robert De Niro, say, on the level, on the lam, making it and getting away with it. Because there's nothing more important than getting away. And if we don't then it's doom we're hearing in the meantime. no matter where we are and no matter who we're with. Who am I going to be for you? Gorilla at Large. Shack out at 101, Hangman's Knot, the man who shot liberty valance, attack, the professionals, the dirty dozen - hey my way will be as devastating as a leafless tree and damn, that's some hard time. me and you we should do our full frontal assault and somersaults. Come be my whorehouse pump action shotgun shootout, poignant and hard boiled and tender as the night is, or can be, or will be with you sleek as a pussy and mysterious as a woman. let me ask you out, straight out. let me be your tense little crime exercise. I'll be the car that bursts into flames, that bursts into flames. And you just stay vivid and bring the house down. as an angel you're as hard as they come, a hot box wow, a hot box yes. I'd love to have seen you in caged heat, I'd have loved to have seen you in Caged heat or as sweet sweetback's baadasssss song's badass. I'm sleazy and around and second string and everyone wants to know if I'm a porno. I'm an exploitation and a drive in. I'm an exploitation and a drive in. So go look up my contempt and feed on it. It'll make you smile. I foresee a time of sympathy and uneasiness. you can punch and be high minded like a rented road in beyond the valley of the dolls. Doll. Ha. look at us surrounded by the suffering that comes out of our own silences and your killer lines you won't read to anyone like the temptation has to be a fist fight against some malevolent giant or something. I study you and never with anything but a sudden coarseness. You know that. A very sudden coarseness that goes form the tits to the thighs and backside and the provocation of all your face in a certain imbecile intoxication. So bite me. I'm some looming out of Russ Meyer, Jess Franco, Dario Argento, and you're the pussy that is openhearted and strange and hip and a borderline intimacy out of Wetmuler, Fassbinder, Oshima, Antonioni, Jissoji, a very executive coolness. I'm a tree shaded paranoia at times. You're an insecure sex tape and the antithesis of designer jeans kung fu. Supervixens and nudies and the direct connection between sex and violence which is the real connection the only connection . Sex goddess fantasies are just nightmares and we need blue collar surrealism to survive our corruptions. I have a lot of time for the dark underside of erotic myths. I have a lot of time for the dark underside of erotic myths. You freeze the smile on my lips. What happens when you see me is a dissolve into a heavy silence and no meaning. What you possess is dimension. What you possess is dimension. Like Pom Pom Girls and Death Race 2000 and Lords of Flatbush and Hollywood Boulevard and Malibu High where you're as despairing as Mean Streets or zany or Louise Brooks in Pandora's Box. I'm after your Pandora's Box. Everything's a disreputable tour de force. I imagine you naked with Georgina Spelvin in The Devil in Miss Jones and can't help falling in love again. I can't help thinking of you because you stay in mind like a song, like a song, like a gorgeous song that's sad and perfect, sad and perfect. Because days are. Days are that. Sad and perfect. For a while. When you're in them. I falter. And fall. Sheer folly.... sheer folly...The one in the Shearling coat and another in cut off Levi shorts, me looking like fucking Travis Bickle all weirded out and listening to stories whilst squatting down , and the good looker with Addie Loggins overalls looking too young you know, too young. There were days it was all mythic and in Hawaiian shirts and wrestling coaches and the like, pretending to be gun crazy, maybe not pretending. It was a Moroccan sun and then a desert sun and a golden mile and I'd be out-writing in my dreams Schrader and Robert Towne and David Ward and Joan Tewksbury and a whole load of them for Spielberg, Scorsese, Lucas , De Palma, Hal Ashby, Terence Malick, Ralph Bakshi as if in some impossible race with geeks and a transcendental style. I mean, oh mercy my. I'm always the one who watched too much and you were always doing the same but later and like I was just a prologue and something that eventually you'd screw around with and force out. I read Ligeia the one Corman made and Scorsese showed in Mean Streets and that's where you step up and have no beef with genre but it's not, like, what you are all about. After all, you delver what you have in your head as you walk about. So when something has no meaning all that means is that it has a naked bliss where uncertainties are like structural hesitations, and yield pressure on multiple meanings, and linger themselves in the background like whores in the fog. The question they pose are left unresolved and everything you do and say demands active participation. Anyone trying to constrain you is to seriously reduce your intellectual and erotic subtlety. You go beyond the easy glide of Parnassian aesthetics to stigmata: Ray Milland and Boris Karloff and Vincent Price and Fabian and play with futile things because they are futile and in them you find life. What you guide us with are your rhthems between the relations, and reflections of the idea, and analogies creating an order of sorts and its why you can make me blush and disappoint the familiar and thrill. No completion is possible babe, not here in a generational youth nor the solitude, star or rocky coast to anything deserving our sail's white preoccupation. That's kind of dreamy and heroic like you are, and you spur a fine intoxication, fearless and lasting. Do I love a dream? Do I love a dream? Do I love a dream? What is this but me introducing myself to your tale stilled beneath an oppressive cloud. I'm stripped of expectations and don't mind dying. Yea, I'm stripped of expectations and don't mind dying, don't mind dying, don't mind dying...everything's difficult and Murnau and Max Ophuls with people talking is the pits. I guess looking at you you like Fellini John Woo Jean-Pierre Melville, Michael Powell- you had a friend who lived in the building where Powell once lived you said, and all I can do is stress the ambiguity of greetings and salut. Nothingness is lurking, nothingness is lurking and a kind of peep art. I spend most of my time in crisis, deliberation and depression and grovel like a skeleton in boredom and vulgar and tawdry but not ashamed. I have a concern like Edgar Allen Poe for effect over objects which makes me a kind of writing pornographer, a kind of late flowering of the Performance group's Dionysus in '69 getting ready for Hair. I am always dead and resurrected with jewels in my chest. And playing to the underground. Which is where I saw you first, smoking and drinking whisky and then beer like John the baptist, a beguiling cosmic dimension in long trousers and a t-shirt that showed your small immaculate breasts like they were the second stanza, each a gorgeous crisis and highlights. Boy did i fall for you right there and everything since has been a kind of obsessive reflexivity. I do all my grabbing without a permit, in districts I don't belong in, like from canal Street to the factory to Long Island freaks to lonely apartments but all anyone cares about is to call me smutty and what's real is inertia and blank spaces between us and around us and fluidity and air and some old guy throwing dice all vague and soluble. That's where our sexy love lies, in that abandonment of constraints. That's where it is. Right there inside what's exquisit and impaired and frequently exploited. We can see the need to reinvent and the way new orders decompose and then go back or forwards to the fundamental. You are fundamental. I am fundamental. We are fertile and have a new tone. Listen in. Hear it. Its a nimble caprice. and is who we are becoming. I'd give you my real name but that would be no less a pseudonym than yours. I can give out cooking tips and revive certain cultural events but only so that we can see what needs translating again. There is alphabet and zeitgeist authenticity and sharkskin-wearing italian hoods or black coats and the opposite of commercial necessity. Baudelaire and Rimbaud and Woody Allen and brian de Palma are hilariously improvising their gifts with a serious sense of long ellipticals. Woo,you're so beautiful girl. Woo you're so classy. I'd abolish the distinction and just go with the thought that response is better than aggression. Give me your affront, give me your affront and let things fall, let things fall.