Wounded Crow - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

Off Thessaly or Phrygia Refine your obscurity. Remain forbidding. You said what you liked was that I meant too much to be fathomed. There’s never a chance. What is the centre? These business types love their figs, their dates and honey, their white bowls and coins and two faces. I like to smear their centuple rates. I never married anyone more than myself. She sold them astral dogs and remained defiantly perfunctory. Does your mother always fall for new passions? Who is it appears and disappears in your story, by the thicket, on the mountain, eager and isolated? Adolescence wracks you with obsessions you never lose. Everything happens without bullion if you’re Baudelaire’s passerby or Iggy’s passenger. The first Hallucination was the fleeing Daphne. There is both real and ideal. Both are abusive though in different ways. I’d been standing in this place for hours. It seems crowds break in like a torrent in the world. I felt like dancing in the line. Twisting would give an alloy to my quality. Would be a sign founded chiefly on scarcity. There is no human conscience, no marrow of civilization. Your wound is deeper than it seems. Poros dressed in rags. Touched by Penia and bearing Eros. Crimes are the estuary of all our kisses. A mirador of laughter in the end. It’s the sheep the shark gave birth to, Vilde. There’s no other way we mend.