Weeping Town - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
Sleeve Notes
The eradicator of the rose tinted morn Your insane ambitions promised you respectability by middle age. This meant trouble. Report to the police. Stay arbitrary. Make no mistakes when it comes to a death sentence. If you’ve lost your temper sass won’t help any. That’s the advice you received. About as far away from useful as Denver. You were inevitable and always in progress. Like when you bought a snuff box at a tea party whilst thinking up a ghost story. No one expected you to live. So what? The smell of liquor ran up your walls. The bed looked grim and important. What did she want? There’s all this snow and you’re thinking about hallucinations of stress. Having not thinking. We’re all better off saying little. And look at the way you turned from that mundane destiny to a shifty eyed scoundrel smelling of raw onions and spirits. This one bitch tough cop has a fine eye for corruption so you’re screwed. Protest all you like. These are far off the rites of Pan where you sewed a boy into a goat skin. Which you always thought of as sc fi. Or news, where news is always, always, always bad. Comedy of errors are liberties taken. Russians are half finished sentences and years later they’re verbatim in works in progress, devising black holes for their enemies to disappear in. It’s comic but scary as hell. Like Gogol. Why have you come to the ear doctor? What blew up your ear drums? Why not leave, take a tram, see the hills far far away. You have a picaresque charm that repulses me like a top dressing. At the feast you asked everyone to start mourning you. It was a vicarious moment where wits were trammeled and adventures a rich crowd’s hoot. The bigger guys wore European shirts but were American. This in an inflamed eyelid of time. Your nature lies outside, both us and yourself. Who were you reading back then? Jane Bowles. Celine. Burroughs. Welch. Your acumen is disgrace plus reality. You only wore dresses to escape. Leaking gasoline should have killed you. They say you outran thirty machetes up in the mountains. Civil servants thought you were a pimp. Well now, everything spoils. Eg. We’re supposed to love ponies. You hated yours. Its malicious yellow teeth reminded you of a misty cloud of nicotine and vile talk. You laughed when it escaped. You fancied the waitress who brought you coffee. You lingered before you went and gave a final look. Lampshades, wicker chairs, black flies like vibrating plumbs on the glass food counter were your last things. I heard you didn’t even see it coming. I think my madness will kill me too. Malaga is full of heat and tourists. Its breezes ferment me. Forward steps occur through necessity. That’s obvious. I’m using a tape recorder getting sub vocal speech. I’m disappearing daily and soon there’ll be nothing left. If the whole of history is already recorded why bother being serious? The radio’s always on. I sleep late.