Falling Apart Again - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
What Happened to the Romantics.mp3
Sleeve notes
Puratoire
You’ll see, we’ll end. And before then whatever I have I’ll abuse. Brood on that. And then, taken as a whole, there’s nothing there. I’d have liked to have touched further, crawled beyond glory, done more than verve. You have the celibacy of a butcher’s axe, are unconscious of reality and too personal. What I lived off was a predicted ordeal. Did you say you’d found that palace with walls of diamonds? Oh then, what did you find? Cretin. I have the talent of the inferior. I am somber and burning. What would I pay for all my women to be shackled? I listen to the tone of greatness in others and have the health of a good worker but theatricality is violence, whippings, castration, decapitation, hangings, corpses hung out all in a pretty row in moonlight, fevers and stupid penny boredom. I am intemperance done as formula. Come with me in lamplight. You look like a Spanish zingara. I adore your mauresque violet and white turban. Your limbs unfold and stir. I have a steady pulse and a refreshed brain after my first three coffees. I always thought it best to go slow. These days I wait in an ugly chair with a difficult pair of shoes, no expression, no feelings, no hint of details remote or other, am like a tough and patient cab horse and am uninspired and old. Five years ago there was a sense of the celestial seized by ice and a grey vista of frozen cliffs. Were you ever a market gardener? Is your body india-rubber? Pasteboard? Crack on. I knew a Spaniard once: a bullfighter from Valencia insulted his dignity yet bullfights are just fake grandeur, Spanish manner, torrid afternoons and an everlasting effort to step out towards forgetfulness. My humped back has the horns of the elaborate presence. Virtuosity is a killer temptation. All it gave was a morbid breakfast and ruins with name tags. I wrote a letter from the siege of Paris a century ago. There’s this sense of bereavement in my cartoons. I have no wounds, just a cold stiffness where mental fortifications are vacancies. In Strasbourg all was lost. I ate a lion from the Jardin des Plantes. Chevet is left with just a single slab of butter. I met the guy who built lighthouses in the West Indies at the Crystal Palace. We were expected to go to Palestine and smoked inferior cigars. I fucked the Brazilian who sang Rossini’s O Salutis in the rue Saint-Dominique at two in the morning and crossed the walls of private life as if an executioner. Some days some goon is playing Irish arias on the organ whilst I spit at any sort of exquisite sentiment or musical science. I put rats in the grand piano of Pablo de Sarasate y Navascues. The Valse des Derviches literally bleeds. When I say I kettledrummed at five and dined at eight you know what I mean. My eye ceaselessly ranges and the atmosphere continually vibrates. Check out my gamineries. I think if there’s no inspiration, no truth, no sound then just go big and loud. I never had time for study and prefer capering around doing tricks.