Dyke City Disco - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
Pleasure is of course the source of suicide.mp3
Sleeve Notes
a dutch vase Flowers in moonlight and the living are dying and all have needs. I say Buddha is not the same Indian as Chinese. And in exchange what profits the officials and mediators but free words, no decency, no rules and too few schools? Neat you are, like a crocodile jaw. Your top is big and I am suited to it. My mind is on the rut. I would furrow all posterity and look for learning to abbreviate settled distinctions. Completeness fortified the town walls and ran conversations at market on cattle, hens, funerals and wives though we moved about bored and silly. Are you with good friends or just looking for a tone that fits your eastern head? Do you ever recall the strange ones down by the river born elsewhere in thunder and rain? Time is present somewhere else too, in ash and fur and flesh and shit. Your questions redeem strange abstractions and worse - speculations. Your unsure tread is this, a mindful haze of disturbances. Dust on dead roses - in the strange dark inhabited with stuffed birds and their wicked glass eyes that are waiting for nothing - is the dust of nothing lifting up. Terror is dignified here but what vibrates are distant calls from deep inside our endless endless endless dread. The sky’s an unhealthy gloom, high frozen constellations and the scent primrose. And the edges out of sunlight are where your glittering skull is emblematic and then you were gone in smokefall and disaffection. A solitude that deprives the senses of vanity recruits fancy too. Why abstain when soon all is past and no longing remains? The bell rings, candle-light flies, both across the chilling field. A time goes on and will end all we have been. We are already beneath the sea. Beneath the hill. Our children will have to bury themselves, dispossessed and without softening grandeur. Our animations are gross and stupid. Another plague befalls and enters the city by way of the farthest unsupposed probability. how aberporth beach in its objective light becomes instantaneously a site of paranoiac critical activity. Pleasure is, of course, the source of suicide. Each little intoxication is a provocation and solitary well-behaved little boys are more susceptible to this than most. Some girls prefer to conjugate. The others are merely a posteriori. It’s a pathos grabbing you by the throat or a grenade lobbed into the heart of the matter. Jacques Rigaut seven years before he killed himself for the last time spared himself by being not in the least interested in death. He was a nervous hammer. The earth was a nail. The great war scattered weapons all over the face of the land. His skull was a petrified forest. His hand a nude reclining. His eye a constellation stepping aside. His torso the end of the world. His upper lip a brick wall from Hans Bellmer’s Sade or Ernst’s. Elsewhere and years ago, the castle at Air-Bel is pink and the heat unbearable, the flight idiotically trite. What wine they had was sour and the men leathery and mean at the centre. I ended up more tangible here. Hysteria exists when there is a gap between sincerity and elsewhere. The infernal hysteria of the medievals was something else however. Later it took flight, became lyrical and then fell back to eroticism. There is a larvae below my feet that hisses. Giant crabs writhe from crevasses and caverns where existence is less than all its cracked up to be, and we’re crystallizing slowly without knowing anything. You fell from the sky like an omen, a strange red fire-bird. Ach, it’s always going to go wrong. Don’t believe by turning away from life reality can be found. No more than physiognomy. Over porridge your fragile rubied appearance floated across a deflowered sponge of golden beach. How did you give everything to a state of mind that travels in the direction of recreation and the disappearance of wonders? From behind the silhouettes are more certain shapes and give emblems enough to know things better. They are dotted everywhere in the immortal universe of Breughel’s hermetic alchemism. What is warped between the raven and the hunters, the low-headed snow dream that spreads across the heart is only once before and once after answered: Bosch’s delights , Duchamp’s bride. There. The whole of the universe as seen from a hundred miles. The profound lassitude is the embryonic form of invisibility. Over a long table there was some talk of embellishment, stupefaction, opaque forests, the sand and rock of Jarry and the axis of the fold. It was beyond me. I watched the frogs wriggling across the ellipsis. I think there are great deformations in the garden. Tufts of moss are as triple-hooked as the bird song. Your fauna are just for murdering. Later, maybe a century say, I remain undiluted like a black gouache curdled by gull’s gall. My back’s to da Vinci’s paranoiac wall. I see soldiers taking aim. They look French evolutionary. You have the mouth around which the earth itself trembles and refuses to turn. I cannot imagine a more naked obscurity. What delirious instantaneity. Virgins bite. A wing feather floats out. Spontaneous banality: Bowie’s Blackstar, Buchner’s Lenz, and Lehrer’s killing pigeons. They said that Man Ray painted to be loved and Botticelli very bad landscapes. Me, I like battles that end in kisses. Wear your ice-flowers low, wheel your light, fascinate the Cyprus, vaccinate the loaves, be my conjugal diamond and remain everlastingly a dead fiancé. I confess amorous memories of impossible frottage. Eve is the only one we both can still have. It’s superimposed. These days I read nothing but Gala’s natural history.