Woman on the Beach -Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
Sleeve Notes
So in the first act he's old and his wife's a scold and he's forlorn and angry and there's no happiness anywhere and he's going to lie and cheat and she's turning to stone and they both should run but they find the car and drive. And then he's young and has greed and his heart's a dynamism so he stands right in his hungry heart and awaits the day when she'll come and he sits drunk on the step on christmas eve whilst she talks about love and loss she’s talking love and loss then rescues him from his cold cold vigil takes him in and buries him in her arms and she's the one and only, the one and only but she's cautious and weighing things up merry christmas, merry christmas and off they go. The old director's as sleek as they get but is full of sorrows and he's fading fast his sorrows for the one he gave up and now loves as a memory and a live wound and he torments the young guy for stealing her from him but he wishes he didn't and he has to quit says he's going to make a new dawn a new film but its getting late. And the girl she's as cold as ice and cool as cucumber wouldn't want to get caught in her frozen ice and she has them both wriggling in the snow the one she adores for his melancholy beauty the other she's testing and finding him oblivious and she watches them writhing and she's so full of fears but like the rest of us she'll be dying and getting old and there's nothing to be done and she might be alone forever, alone forever in her winter confinements. So is the love just sex and is the love some kind of pity is love blind and is her mistake to look is love a pretty girl or the romance of nature January tree and a rice wine jealousy Is love possible or as impossible as death is and when you tell the story are you letting yourself off lightly and ducking your sadness and refusing your wrongs Loves a savage mystery all fear and trembling love's a savage mystery all fear and trembling neither beans nor herring and my love for you's this sort of cursing like foam on beer, like foam on beer.On receiving her letter from a distance and long time gone Green mantels and living flames catch the table. It’s humming olive light stretches my disbelief It’s hot pageant listless in a funeral abeyance And after so many years too. The great strength of those Lies in tokens of material. I don’t rest but sear and Listen – now you’re there send me the latest news And take my advice – vulgarity is all over her face She’s nothing but a cow and yoked. The light bulbs are weak and won’t go far believe me. Keep away from abstractions. Forgo intuitions That go inwards. They’ll run you premature. And you’ll be lost. Bait your truths. Dead little fish lie on the top. Go below for bigger fats. Overreach won’t you Damn it. Stay greedy at your devotion. Grip on Whatever they declare as character because they’re liars They have no inside so appearance and reality coincide Are just forces going in a certain direction. Let’s Not mess. My monologues are meant to be, you little slut. That’s a good way of putting things, product of a mote imagination Not wholly conscious and easily satiated. I have marrow. Smoke all you like. Tell them I said so. There’s always humility In first acts. My favourite lizard is the chameleon. They are more than half real. Inaudible but visible. I am very disappointed in all of them. Tell them. Tell them I deny their reality. But that lends them too much existence. Caprice runs from one of them, their face. Commit this: Your grossest carelessness. On that other score Superstitions are undermotivated. Unless there’s money Leave it. Some moments of double reality Say something else. Our vows are ourselves. I’m Not vile because you forsee it simply because You see not as things are but as they seem, Mingling in forgotten scenes. My horror in this. You grow up Like any of them and I’ll fucking kill you. You know squat. I came home at 11. I have my own purgations. One fellow with allusions all over contained great scorn For hell. He’s not the friend I should have had. Dew rusts the morons everywhere. Romance looks for death. Never repeat integrally. Instead, find the canto bone. Would you have what? Degradation exultation, Extent and various life? Pickups? This evening bends A remote state of beatitude. The insects are in the lights. The fox couples the dark. Everything attracts. Earth is carnal. And time is not implicit but forced upon it. Yea globe By these your impressions growIt is for certain now that we can happily close down this Anticipating no unforeseen events nor further claims for reimbursements. The area Is quite desolate and Nature corrodes alongside all else. There are melodramatic arrangements Of outhouses and sheds even a buckled harness Missing its eye propping against the chapel lintel And a fierce torpid pond round back with stray cats and the stilted goat must’ve died months ago. This sun is too hot and there is too abundant grass. It is hard to walk. By the broke-backed laundry press A large beetle as if drunk or startled or idling Staggers across the top roller Then across wooden struts and a steel nut. Armies are remote. The starting point is never war. Wooden poles Leant against the hut roof and the terrified stillness is burning snow. In my dream I was startled To see you carrying a towel Your hair crazy with shadows Your face slipping. freight Two years ago there was just a bed And a runaway and money coined No honour and broke kitchen-ware A flood, a throat cut and all things bled. Scars bones seeds force the ground. The packed clay ran to the furthest shore. Build a house out of this is a hole. The circle of the mouth’s just sound. Whoever cleaned up cleared out. For her decisions were made elsewhere In a foreign tongue by a secretary In a language without gap or doubt. There’s a roller bird whose vast song Can’t hear the strange things inside The linings and the cabins and All its margins that went gone wrong. 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. she holds them side by side so all the earth can see what she sees and it's kind of funny, because she is kind of funny but there's a screaming heart in her too and tears right there in the resurrected lens walk to the hill top and stand beneath the pine tree and its impossible beauty and mysteries and drink the rice wine and argue but only as a staging post and a final intrigue The boy's a fury of hunger and appetite he'd eat the sky and the roads and his future will come tumbling down with all the king's men tumbling down like humpty dumpty and the old man's a hero and desperate and she sees his full measure in his fear which she's absorbed and shares like a secret twin the snow is worse than ever and no one comes to the expected place and there they hold a séance rising up all their frights and its daybreak then late then too late which is where it always begins eventually the end of days with a frozen life and a frozen dying and a girl in the middle who watches her own eyes watching and knows there's a long way down and a need for levitation so the strangeness in her mind is no more than what is needed and she's working on this day and night and maybe she won the award when they were handing out the prizes and that's the hidden secret they're all having in their pockets she's the little girl down the lane with a smiling darkness and irrepressible desires and friends in many places holding candles to the wind as winter comes. she holds them side by side so all the earth can see what she sees and it's kind of funny, because she is kind of funny but there's a screaming heart in her too and tears right there in the resurrected lens. the woman on the beach is not delirious her agonies are those of the sky gull screaming too far away from the ear the bonfire is cold as the very heart that beats slow as the brooding ocean and the implacable eye of the white sun that's casting a ferocious judgment across the grey sands and their silence. she's been hurt and deceived and betrayed by her own foolish hopes and trust has a broken wing and her mind it is racing out like a hare in the winter fields that sudden pulse that snaps the eye into wonderment. Who walks on water who is three in one, who is staging the jury so she can speak. She is tired and wide awake and never sleeps. Her expectation is a shudder and she's shivering her claims and is cold and entire and a glory and a flower and the eating will stop and the drinks tremble in the hands of the scandalised and the absolute immune to critique and lost in recognising her for the first time and her challenges and is she lost or found? Is she lost or found? and what's her silence saying? what's her stillness moving? i'm the knight of faith and the knight of resignation climbing the mountain with a mule going uphill in the direction to infinity sacrificing what's dearest for the life to come but when's that coming and where'll it be? I'm needing a resurrection where all things can happen and don't see hope in this kind of despair my love isn't granting me miracles and I'm foolish and absurd where is my faith that ends in despair but is this just fear and trembling and its four introductions and what's at the heart of my book is a suspension where there's Agamemnon and Brutus and they fail because they don't suspend what's true and right and their darlings are dead. what's an act and what's the rule? What's the consequence and what's the cost? There are no customs that bind me but I'm 50 years down the line and far far away, just far far away and no train's coming round the bend and it's 3:10 from Yuma and I'm dragging the killer to the railway tracks and everyone is shooting and the sounds are crackerjacks my heart is bleeding and my ears ringing and the sky is so high and the birds are pledges to some great height I can't see and my fingers are crossed and is this just a test that I am obedient that I'm on the same side but I feel I'm on the wrong side of the town and the voices of reason don't want me and the friends are gathering with their stones they're ready to throw and I'll be that seducer crippled against the town gate blown away by cool hand luke and billy the kid and wyatt erp in tombstone, bleeding out on the highway rushing to heaven on the wrong path needing sugar, needing sugar in my begging cup, just sugar in my begging cup. The dawn is a scorch of pink and blue it's hardly a walk and the leaves have fallen he's in a room where his hearts a thief and she's elsewhere with her beloved with a cat hiding in their bedsheets he pours himself an orange juice and walks out into the cold morning without the luxury of mysteries to protect his aching and the winter is coming a furious horse surging like inevitability time's a rogue and luck a dark crow his paint is dry his books unreadable the clothes dishevelled make no sense no rhyme nor reason in strange nor familiar homes not where the heart is and it feels like something broke the irreparable element , a soul is the most forlorn when there's no where to go to look to hide to seek to be seen and at the edge of a field by the big church they're digging a hole and he's going six feet under but he's still breathing being buried alive and the times are changing all dressed up and nowhere to go the ghost at the party the worm in the apple your coming home to roost and little red rooster all shook up flying home for winter but christmas isn’t here and fee fi fo fum this is the way of the crying man with his ticket to ride and a life for the dying in. a life for the dying. 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.