Tomb - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

What is this dawn that brings them dead to the sun's white kiss the hands that move and touch both the heart and the calling that shivers through the wilds between thighs, eyes, the trembling amour in hunger for each, one to the other, mysteries within ghosts of themselves and their longing twisting like a gorgeous ivy trailing its mortal coils to immortality, the childish lust and ageless passion the unkept sinews of torture and pain and unbeguiling passion intense against mirrors that won't hold the form and shape because formless and shapeless and the years pass in a place where there is only time and yet the body, oh, the bodies that are delicate as the dying flowers that in a cold vase wither and petal by petal fall the hand that touched but barely the face that needs and wants and is too old, older than the mountains and archaic, strange, acid then youth, puckish and uncouth yet infinite refinement too caught in baited breath baited life, baited death, the tethered creature, the supreme man the supreme woman the dance of death that is no dance at all but belated, inexpressible, a haunted oppression of dreams, a moment of inexplicable hesitation and vulnerability , almost a nightmare, almost a prayer, and she is going to die in this, she whose hand touches herself in a mysterious eros that is death and the stream of joy within the touching grasp of herself and his agonies through the window and the delirious sunlight that mounts its way towards a summit neither will ever see.I'd hold your face and watch it like a bomb I'd drive over the cliff into the divine death of the raving sea. Your ruthlessness is a confession and your fragility just a way of finding the best angle to see why heaven is a torment. Who knows what this abyss is saying. Who knows whether the last time you fucked was really what it seemed. Who was that on the phone last night and how long did it take before you faded and needed more whiskies. The bottle smashed on the pavement round about midnight. There was a delirious air about us all. I was feeling beholden to all sorts of wicked nights previously entertained, gone, perished, but instructive. You were up ahead and in a fierce conversation. I was upside down in my skull like a bat. if we ever fought i wondered what tricks you'd try and play to beat me. And would I let it happen. By the time the rain had stopped I wasn't sure how we would survive the flood. It didn't take long for me to bring my tongue in line with a single doom line on the horizon of the conversation. There is always one there if you look. And the electricity was a shine that disappeared into fake ideals and abstractions. But we don't mind them and know they have their uses. Who felt forlorn and who felt hungry to test out limits? Well I saw the way you looked at chaos and accepted it as a willing comfort. I thought that was when your divinity was clear and if ever there had been a time to feel fear there it was. Right there. When you smiled I was emptiness. The night coughed like it had been outside too long and you saw how frail everything was, from the wall hangings and the door frame and the glasses clinking at the edge of time. When I left there were things that made no sense of anything I knew and they never would. I was fearless on the ride home and composed an ode to some hero. Sleep came like a sluggish hot beast. Are there good deaths? I composed a message but never sent it. Do you do that? I wonder if they're the ones that we ought to be reading. A hundred years from now there will be nothing left of us and yet that makes it even more important. But who is that screaming in my ear? And who is counting the hours? Days are where we live and I'm always on the brink. Further hours. Then nowhere. Then someone. Then emotionless. Then a meal. The faces who watch. Those who are elsewhere. Not everyone cares. This is the mist. This is life. These are the days. Where are you now? Where did you go? The drifting boat. The cruel sea. The lost boys. The frightened woman. The sad. The disowned. The disowning. The moments of happiness. The walks to the trees. The walks up the mountains. The snows that fall. The generations pressing in. The half look. The half sigh. The half life . The half alive. Some primitive terror. The ineffable talk. the backward glance. the revived meaning. The discovered theft. the moments of agony. the misunderstood. The misunderstanding. a bitter apple. a sombre beauty. the sudden fury. what has always been. What has always been. Talk of sexy nuns. Talk of bird feathers. Talk of concealing. Talk of agonies. Talk of navigations. Talk of regrets. Talk of hopes. all the way down. Can you face it? Can you? Can anyone? The frightened woman. The sad. The disowned. The disowning. The moments of happiness. The walks to the trees. The walks up the mountains. The snows that fall. The generations pressing in. The half look. The half sigh. The half life . The half alive. Some primitive terror. The ineffable talk. the backward glance. the revived meaning. The discovered theft. the moments of agony. the misunderstood. The misunderstanding. a bitter apple. a sombre beauty. the sudden fury. what has always been. What has always been. Talk of sexy nuns. Talk of bird feathers. Talk of concealing. Talk of agonies. Talk of navigations. Talk of regrets. Talk of hopes. all the way down. Can you face it? Can you? Can anyone? I am without a season. I am what I always was. I am young blood's great objection. Worried by silence. whisperer. Curious. Nervous but nothing happens. Nothing ever happens. woah. I am without a season. I am what I always was. I am young blood's great objection. Worried by silence. whisperer. Curious. Nervous but nothing happens. Nothing ever happens. woah. talking in my sleep but no one's here to hear and then the midnight creep and then the faraway's near moving kind of slowly the day is like a twilight zone and everyone's a little lonely and the cold it nips you to the bone so this is christmas and the prayers are going to heaven I've a bitter heart and have things wrong But I'm praying for you and wont learn my lesson And singing for you this christmas song and the songs they all sound jolly though the bleak midwinter's best and the mistletoe and holly promises kisses and the rest so this is christmas and the prayers are going to heaven I've a bitter heart and have things wrong But I'm praying for you and wont learn my lesson And singing for you this christmas song but the truths they all lie deeper than the lights and flowing beer I'm the midnight dreaming sleeper And in sorrow I shed a tear There are promises and dreams that slide around heaven's bowl and wishes that slide on moonbeams as the stars and I grow old so this is christmas and the prayers are going to heaven I've a bitter heart and have things wrong But I'm praying for you and wont learn my lesson And singing for you this christmas song Come see me in the daytime come see me in the night come see me then and show a sign that we're going to be alright Mr Bridger has died cracked a heart in a strange room in a shining example of Stretching his age to its limit. I can’t remember whether I liked him nor if There was anything fine about him Actually I did and there was But we’re all philistines here especially The high poetry and fail to see what is viable in anything Except the difficult work inside where a part remains indestructible which You mustn’t find & is paradise or anyway some decisiveness of living. About this life well someone quoted me and it wasn’t me actually because I never said anything like that But it was good it was “Live as if you’re being framed”. Honest, you can’t help but stay annoyed In between the course of a personality Being diminished into unappeasable talk Night and day and on the other hand wherever you look there’s always someone Going to cause trouble and then they have about ten days at most. You look like your own corpse March sunlight by quince trees And life is hard on everyone and art should record that and so must be hard too. Maybe we have minds so dark here did the renaissance even take place? we Have to ask. Berryman said that When his sudden insight came for Beckett. I screwed a lot of them and seven or eight were serious but I listen to what is said and where people go and I don’t believe in things And rebel against obedience and plan to ignore the sensible advice The less said the better. They are frankly jerks and they wait to do good But ruin everything because they choose language That tries to be appropriate And mistake situations calling for extravagance as needing the very opposite. With dreadful subjects, we seem honestly better if needling hell wouldn’t you agree? The log won’t be reduced to ashes And has already started to rot its insides Softly outside the door So I’ll need to drag It away and refuse that pause When all the world stops and tenderness Is the day after and too late. 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 as trashy as me 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. 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 rainfiled 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 a stake than sex appeal, 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. what ails you would you consider please just living a long time for me? I imagine you returning assume I will use January to finish maybe in Paris then Honfleur in Havre I'll be a fencing master training in and out the hours I need a spa a cold shower and cold bath a nude briefly what ails you would you consider please just living a long time for me? I imagine you returning the world is a dead stepfather mother you said I disappointed you I had to be humiliated by you saying be friends with him. All that's left now is reprimand and bitterness. what ails you would you consider please just living a long time for me? I imagine you returning He has gone for good and you are now mourning him whereas you never understood my overwhelming sensitivity. hahahaha we are both quite alone and weak can we be happy for each other? I have an unpleasant duty something to tell I would have hidden it but it would have been another hell to misunderstand each other by. what ails you would you consider please just living a long time for me? I imagine you returning I passed a shop and a painting on the Passage des Panoramas a reclining woman watching 2 nudes dreaming by the man you once loved but I had no money for a deposit the unbearable torrent of daily errands and I forgot about it and the art was terrible but has sentimental value somehow what ails you would you consider please just living a long time for me? I imagine you returning Men seek their provinces women count the cost and watch hard his youth's an appetite his ending's a melancholic fear spreading out beyond the confines of lips and accomplishments and she's seeking a merry christmas and a way of not being cold anymore she's for their eyes she knows that and smiles but its a curse as all beauty is like the leap from the window ledge into the snow and the naked limbs in the white-shingled sea of time. Glacier snow grows cool and fresh and there's a sort of tyranny in the whole of flesh isn't there it seems so. Where do we fall in and swim the lakes whose edges are sown in eye lashes and strange dawns the abandoned hope curling like a small gown and cigarette smoke . Where does love come from and where does it go? Are there just excuses and regrets and inexorable lusts and broken dawns fading into a bitter truth, a plaintiff sad song until the peny falls and your fears all come true? Everyone bids farewell at some point to themselves and what they used to be and maybe we come to the world too fast and leave too slow. Fade out now, all of you, with the tenacious confidence of those who must make their way through life alone. I'm singing to the milky way and travelling light I'm singing to the milky way and I'm travelling light There's a light touch and a ten ton truck and many years to go and I'm never coming back. Sorrow's a woman by the ocean and a single star and daytime falling Sorrow's a woman by the ocean and a single star and daytime falling love's a fools errand and don't look round but this is a boat of lost souls overcrowding. when she talks its small but not smalltalk small but not smalltalk and her eyes flutter like birds tumbling and her lashes are the reeds of the wide lake of mysteries and ghosts and the lost cabin where all the wild beasts gather and the heron is alone in the water and is watching everlasting is watching everlasting. what will come of this and who will be there to know? are the days now ending or have they yet to begin? she's moving like a panther all sleek and determined all sleek and determined as the films they keep rolling their lessons and sermons their dramas and epitaphs their great noise and confusion their silence and compassion these are prayers and incantations payoffs and metaphysics and philosophies and rogues and lamentations and cries to the wounded cries to the wounded we're all wounded babe, yea that it we're all wounded babe ooo as the films they keep rolling their lessons and sermons their dramas and epitaphs their great noise and confusion their silence and compassion these are prayers and incantations payoffs and metaphysics and philosophies and rogues and lamentations and cries to the wounded cries to the wounded we're all wounded babe, yea that it we're all wounded babe writing you texts takes more than a whole book my mood is now an abstract of mortality of lived time are their forces that are like we're fishes on a hook flapping around on deck. This is a sign. tedium vitae coming again with the emails tedium vitae coming again with the emails all my life. all my life. it's impossible to get alive. I have not lived . I have watched a life outside it and its ambivalent affects. You watched it too. I held on to you. we'd watch together. external to humanity or maybe a deep dive in. tedium vitae coming again with the emails tedium vitae coming again with the emails Find me an equivalence. the self is emptying like old dishwater self annulment is easy self abnegation is a breeze there's a deliberate impersonality in my art and poetry. i am a mystic without any intuitions i don't engage with crisis and doubt i am crisis and doubt i am the immortal tedious spectacle a beautiful disease like when the eyes brighten into an incurable physiological misery strange towns like Brussels Paris Berlin incurable incurably ill eyes like black berries melodramas on the display of suffering sigils that cloak more than reveal. you'll never know me now. you said you would bear witness but you're renewing your interest in life tedium vitae coming again with the emails tedium vitae coming again with the emails Nicolas Chamfort what a laugh suicides failed each time who wounded you? Myself. Seneca killed himself three times. Knife, poison then scalding bath. tedium vitae coming again with the emails. Vittore Baroni explained the genesis of his own multiple name project: "... My Lt. Murnau project (1980-1984) was an attempt to study how ... musical myths are built... today, all these cult-underground bands, how far you can push an Image without a Sound. I started with spreading a lot of leaflets and announcements using the image of film-maker W.F. Murnau in his army uniform and the name Lieutenant Murnau that I found mysterious and evocative enough. I did the first cassette for VEC- Holland "Meet Lt. Murnau" just mixing, breaking, manipulating all the Beatles and Residents records. The idea is that Lt. Murnau uses existing music without having to use instruments or compose notes. Then I tried to confuse ... the audience having Murnau cassettes and records released in different countries by different people: Jacques Juin in Germany ... the 7" EP "Janus Head", with Grafike Airlines in Belgium the cassette package "The Lt. Murnau Maxi-single" (C30). Then there were several more cassettes, contributions to compilations, graphic works in magazines, etc ... A lot of texts etc are enclosed with the various packages ... I also did a concert-performance as Lt. Murnau, with mask, cutting and playing different records + crucifying a Beatles record etc. And I did in 1980 a programme ... "La Testa di Giano" for national Radio One in Italy, using Murnau materials. I printed and circulated hundreds of life-size cardboard masks of Lt. Murnau, that people could wear. Anybody could do Murnau music and become Lt. Murnau, and a few people did it. At the concert I distributed masks to the audience and then filmed them ... as they "become" Lt. Murnau as well. The main problem I found is that very few people were interested in working for a project that they felt belonged to myself, even if I tried to keep it mysterious in its origins. So in the end I always did 99% of the work, even if Jacques Juin did a lot of Murnau work in 1980 -81 and a few others contributed nice work (Michael Vanherwegen, Roger Radio, among others). The whole project was focussed on a very limited area, that of underground music, so it did not have the more varied overtones of the Monty Cantsin philosophy. Yet, I think the problems are the same ... The fact is that to participate you had to really work collectively, and this is something few in the art circles like to do without having their name in big letters ... "Her heart was with Frankie but she was leaning The sheriff was a dark horse and obscure meaning The bandits were in the bar drinking And she was done with just thinking. The music was playing the showgirls dancing Her heart was beating her feet they were prancing The lights were low and the whisky was flowing The bad men were loud and trouble was sowing Frankie was a good man with his strong arms and smiles She was a beauty with her dark eyes and whiles The strangers were being most wicked and loud The sheriff was watching her his face a dark cloud It happened in a brawl all shouts and frowns A fool pulled out his pistol but Frankie shot him down She held his arms and cried out for good sense But the sheriff took her Frankie and her curses were intense. The judge was a stern man everyone showed fear Self defence don't work he said the sheriff shed no tear Hang Frankie the next day, she couldn't sleep that night Went to plead with the judge that the sentence was not right. She cried to the sheriff and her sorrows were so wide That the sheriff freed Frankie and to the judge he lied She rode away with Frankie into a falling sun And the sheriff stayed behind to regret what he had done. You find your love and lose her In the blink of an eye In the days and years that follow Where in darkness you cry 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 slef-love. Not in self-loathing either. You should stop tring 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? Do I like my life? 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. I read much in the night never go south see your shadows maybe frightened. these orange leaves and rain cast shadows on the strong strange walls where you live. and this is now. Roads speculate and minds have a thousand sordid images some sit like a cat along the bed's edge others flicker against the high low cielings and our soul is stretched across mystical skies. All my fancies are curled up tight and you're this one infinitely gentle infinitely suffering thing gathering yourelf like ancient women do in vacency with hands across a laughing mouth I dozed last night and this morning watched thrushes revealing visions of nature and the city and wondered at four and five and six o'clock like the conscience of a blackened road. evenings settle down like fog in corners of streets the showers come and go and there is coffee and human voices that throw us confusion and we linger in chambers of our own dreams. Is anything said what I really meant at all? And what are you contemplating ? Am I one like Lazarus come from the dead? Or just a dooryard and impossible to meet even halfway? There are high sentences meticulous but obtuse like I imagine mermaids might sing when the wind blows water white and black and the wild hair blown all over by the high winds.Something terrifies and says : never. and then there's you saying: keep trying. I'm going to disappear now. I'm in leather who was that just then and was she crying I'm going to disappear now. I'm in leather who was that just then and was she crying this is entropy and poetry and life you're my deepening futility and knife body mind existence a unique space singular and a confessional time's face a theatre for interiority and not autobiography a rumination in crisis and reciprocity no diagnosis no solution no more than this and so no Pascal, Chateaubriand or George Sand and I've some styles that are neither hit or miss. I'm going to disappear now. I'm in leather who was that just then and was she crying I'm going to disappear now. I'm in leather who was that just then and was she crying here's a motif of death another depression and debt circles each like finger rings of gold and set to shine into the bright biliousness of bar nights vacuous catatonia and now tediums lights because you're not there and never now come and this is an omen, this is how I'm done. I'm going to disappear now. I'm in leather who was that just then and was she crying I'm going to disappear now. I'm in leather who was that just then and was she crying