Down Towns - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

Who is the lost kid? A mess. Of course no original. I notice he could read creatively. Spot plants. Devise tricks. See characters in other sets. In his early days CIA men in remote outposts made it a turn of the century situation. Like, nineteenth. He cheated all the time and held little manner, style or interest. He preferred alphabets. Some images elsewhere are in sequence. Precision is arbitrary. Feeling bad about something makes you dangerous. Somehow he’s a patriot despite his low level gene pool and a chain reaction of latent ideological bias. Which sounds meaningless to my ear. Alma is soul and what he defines theatricality happens in dance clubs. He has no money, works fast and most don’t listen to the shit hitting the fan. He worked to get the needle in the red. He never cleaned up. Nothing changed. He knew what the dangerous spiral looked like and his dreams were responsible. He had a simple sense of humour. In a movie theatre his mother is there saying no good will come of this. What might have happened? What mattered first? You murmured if you were going for lyricism. How many serious agendas have you hidden away? The soul has sorrow. The first record was Fats Domino and then some urban low life that was what he was about. He was a last exit himself. White noise. And after all, what did he think of himself really? So a normal job was make believe. He said his week matched your year. He listened to surfing songs. Or something close. He had his axioms. What was in the hot road? Who were they? ‘The anxiety of children who sleep in the dark.’ He said his heart felt like static on a radio. Naked in kinky black and bizarre s & m he flirted. Your advice to him: Be an adult. Lie. Intrinsically. Ex sea I ex Your heart is lined with satin and its chambers are pale and blue like harp music hurled out by old men with beauties full and six women. She talked and everyone had to listen, like a Texas Voltaire with gorgeous manners and she had Lowell in some other bedroom after a society dinner by the port over the wide sea thrice, like time, round about, poisoned with stone talk and sagageous eye, sweltering the boiled air, her exact persistence as if politics might bake, or dog us. The toiled wood scaled up the doorways, to and fro the frenzied rich all go – and they make the slab thick with ingredients out to their baboon charms, its firm closure near the lonely sun. This is an unwrinkled sea and there is hardly a breeze. Life blows high here though and plies us double. Our troubles are shifty and bred in intrigues without wisdom, and we’re clever but cowardly. It’s a yellow time and not golden but chicken. There are too many claims for glories and brightness and both mornings leave nothing behind. Everything is underway and a sigh and there is no one coming back. What makes all the difference are the abandoned cars and evenings. Here the seducers are paid and double beds remain warm but are work. There are scarlet legs and there are elsewhere in the moving miles of the city others, higher, better, and giant bodies heavy from slumber, their shadows over the ocean. Everyone will end flowing backwards, and no one did right by me, nor did they reach the dead first. Water mixed with the prayer wine and each sanctuary was heaped with sheep and goats and blood flowed into the stained tears and many died. It is dreary to shout across the crowds that slaughter dignity and the strong mind. This day is impudent and like a narrow sword and wryly I looked out for friends but they never came. Pitiful spirits come to the darkness and ill fate too. What shatters are souls and bones and there will be a time for tombs and burials and who will say when fortunes come? It is a golden wand she holds facing both the dreary regions and the smoke. Under palm trees spiteful and lost to companionship she sleeps. Hers is a quiet siren and crazed myrtle or lemon tree shadows the square under her room. This banquet will end and the blue flowers like silk will bloom against the wall and veneration will converge with missed conversations though sincerity will never comprehend us. You are simple and too naïf. These men have plans. Watch how people grow and exhaust themselves. Trace the swan’s flight over the lake and how the flamingo stalks the shallows. The knots of the ruined will flounder and the precinct will be heaving with party-goers and enchanters. These are the old men of war. They are the doubly expedient classical types. Mercury is the sky and hot the flagstone. I wonder at your uprightness and know your balance takes more than one night, one profession, one business, one heaven. I drink and burn incense. My vigor is solitude. You are as water to the moon, neither religion nor power. Your purpose is inside your body and your body inside you too. We drank ginger and lived.