Mipongo Plains - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
Sleeve Notes
What did we do after a bad night? Got drunk and profound. Everything true is inaccurate on such evenings and paranoid As despondency. I have no recollection of what you are about now But back then I think I knew and it meant something more than melancholia And blazed up. I guess you’d rather be less careless and time with A hand round our throats is held at bay by your pale life studies which Insist your mind’s overbearing, not right but unnamable, clever and striking. I wanted to be more than decorative and read books but that was wrong. You cast a hungry eye on everything and everyone and I had no genius Save for a jilted sort of footnote. Your strength was a galaxy of a severer poetry And always the morning held you in a wild glory before the outdoors. I was not old enough to know this was inevitable, a way of animating The sad incurable line of myopia that living like this reproduces. Our roads were illuminated, and you left in a hurry for An alien room to me, brightened by good avoidances and better nights. Some times my surface is too boisterous and unbearable but I’m real soft. The trouble is always to keep the dream humorous and wise Eyed with the certainty of a horseman and all the formalist influences. Dispositions end up less than what can be said, a marginalized way As sleek, fluent and stony as it needs to be, basking in the raw That is less abundant and altered in memory but was chilly lust and bodied. Did the sun return us to the young life of the oldest boulders of the natural day Breaking our thoughts into the full motive of our desires? It was slow And poignant, a cry that we both heard above every other clamour Like of blackbirds. Our impersonal presence stayed us, shrunk us from days Until there were only consequences and a disappearance of what was strange. That was our pity and it altered us. I became obscure to you And all I mean and wished to mean was lost. It’s an almost impossible subject To take into your personal life. Everything’s too difficult and disciplined And tough. Maybe we would have died. We seemed to turn away To something else, no longer clinging like gulls to rocks that were too cold And strained. We lived as if immortality was frail and it’s surely not. I don’t have any lines. Here I am at ease. I hold in my hands An invitation, the whole of outside. I can face inwards and not feel too uncomfortable Can pull things up and try and see the shape Without wanting to overshape my instincts. When I live I’m always looking for something More true. Do we ever know what’s coming? I don’t know what happens in the immediate aftermath Of departure. Everything is in the middle and my secrets Can be wintry, might kill me but you’ll never find me. I live in strange weather and listen to Schubert As an orphan would. Maybe you’d look for me In the sky which is where there’s nothing. On the shortest day a shaft of light fills our chamber Where spirits hide us from ourselves, or rather, they sift Our uncertainty so not all of us is required but just enough. You don’t come to me as a single line but neither do I. You might see me as an emblem of misconnections But there’s more to you and our separation. Some nights What lingers is what happens after you stop talking and The line’s stopped. When you close down its for me to listen In the dark to unconsoled silences, your absent words Jostling up like a litter of bitch Labradors Til they fade and it goes empty and different. Do you wonder On these scenes or is your imagination too sublime to reach me? What are we close to? I think sixteen items permanently shared. And another thirteen things we won’t talk about. And five Regrets we can’t have even in fiction, dreams or lies. The world’s so much like those proportions. It’s hybrid and ultra real And hyphenates miracles which are totally evoked but lost. Nothing’s just autobiographical, nor tragical nor melancholic But there are seasons and we have them and travel against them Don’t we? I wonder why it’s so. And what you’d agree to. If you could summarise home would you know where yours is? How would I answer if you asked the same; and is home portraiture? Oddly unsettled and uncertain of whether elsewhere is there Or here, that’s a kind of unease that nourishes you and maybe you Should stop. Learn my address, my room, notice its permanency And my condescensions. I sometimes think you have a time, A small bookish time, that you carry like a personal library Of sumptuous interiors stuffed in your back-pack, overwhelming In a small intimate space, and there lies your friction with time. And there lies conversations, sex, our abridgements and wonders, There is that little openness I squeeze so much imagination from. It’s The whole business and grows your dense emotional undergrowth And tangles us up and hyphenates your English way so it’s almost pretense. Is that it? Are lovers always permanently deceitful in deepest figure And pose? But what would that mean and how could I even start to know If that had to be the way? Or that it had always been done Like that? I can owe impressionistic closeness and be expressive – You know that – but can you owe me anything that ever goes beyond Your privations...? In the tearless crying library we chase the eye and its meanness. Conquests and subways of my tremendous heart heave upwards And harp across rows of mental physical elation: if drunk stay so And mentally voyage without set horizon. What is this book but A force not architecture, rimless and processionalist, inflecting a bound Time and bequeathing no vortex but a graven paradise. Not many live As the reader who corresponds, her pages epic with bedlamite imagination It’s own propulsion. The reader must of all things be alone and lonely. The librarian has that unusual freedom of guardianship That reaches to the disgrace of all day and every day looks to Each chained figure coming and going in unreleasing time hastened By other eyes pasted where motion is stayed, implicit, celled and lofty. What is speechless leaks acetylene in a vast atlantic of stormy paper. Spaces, thick with watery histrionic words that bear on every thriving thing Bear down like Jonah’s great fish, knowing words are alters raised up. I imagined you once silk-skinned, shoeless and responsible, endless In infinite distraction and dividing the sky between each slow turned Ravine of page after page. Dangerously there are no dry rains Between the lost beginning and centre of entire years and longing Moving between their white mysterious buildings. Each letters’ mystical vision Wave, dance and tower up ecstasies on paper more so than any erotic hand. Your absorbed acclimatized Eyes demand surrender, frenzied, seized and intoxicated by myths Doomed up by power in lost beauties unconditional by chance And divided across the stacked partitions of day. You Brush the margins of mornings and dawns and then evenings and The graduate capacities of cooling nightimes, poised across a prodigal aisle And the jerky desk frame. Who is really equipped to read not enticements But the more difficult incantation beyond mere understanding In the strange elevations of furious thought that slows and chaffs dullness? What is reading? Well, but surely not having a kitten up a sleeve. Its passage Starts evasive and heaves assemblages that spur disasters and treasures. Thought is impregnated with ransacks. There’s a drench of words In the right moment where materials soften and illuminate and might Disappear fatally if touched too hard or justified grievously or in tired Intense flesh the surrendering discrepancies slip, confess, pull Or pull away, another domination, drawn by moon as a vast belly of waving Shapeless snowy nothing. References cluster thickly and coast slowly through Great eternities and inflections of coves, breezes, seas of pieties Returning from each great voyage of familiar, interwoven, mistaken Cathays. These readers near concluding midnight are savages insisting they sleep Midway between long dreams and woken fogs beshrouding their whale book. Within impossible depth of unfathomable returns, accelerating elated stuff And floated absorption, can you imagine them harpooning time’s north pole, Eating elemental song and raw meat & chanting like squatters their Thoughts in blind humpty dumpty starkness and losing the horizon so dark it is In that damned white arctic essay? Yes. Delusions’ great curve communicates the Veering strings of defeated telepathy in running black pitch. The eye over the ink’s Redundancy and limited wisdom comes after the broken towers of thought Have tumbled and the day spent, and evicted us. Membranes of broken intervals Are where the hurled love of desperate choice holds the studied maniacal Sentences in oracles of drunk nonsense before watery eyes looking Beneath the wideness of studious wrecks take fright at those delinquent surfaces As of night beasts crawling through nameless seas. Hooked and brave Barbarians in the wilderness fasting, praying monumentally in miniature And cowled by difficulty, deprived, unlulled & blunt except for the sublime remorselessness of ferocity, that’s where your footnotes find their purity. There’s a disciplined space dutiful to order, cases in point, the oldest Type of prehistoric life, the riddle of time and immortality and what fades In contrast, more than ashes or sequence, are distractions following Us up, ambiguous ovals of shadow and destiny beginning a whole biography Marking the skull across the desk, beginning and ending us and our universe. In each library There’s an immense slow tribute inside bearing mere formalities Of interest in a marginal way, a scenic vatic bibliography strange and sleek. A hundred might come and go throughout the day and flank the lens Of heavier desire than bodies falling or a Jericho of rape or swift glass carrion. Poor slated knowing isn’t trick of sense but takes cover in broken soundless Passages going to the fire’s embers, empty and empty and empty, then different. Golden sun and print and a perfect joy for a moment is the motive And thinking’s difficult and calls us to this world and then others, astounding Like hurricanes where souls are done in at the sight of this, a beached And fresh imbalanced corpus of books that reckon on nothing nor proclaim But wait in stone death for the dreamer reaching out to take them personally And revive them up. Besides myself I am very solitary not a single companion Yesterday I wrote a dozen verses on blue-black eyes to amuse some female friends I imagined drinking tea with them. After I accordingly inserted myself in the scrap book and then afterwards walked til ten that evening. You bid me keep my spirits up I thank you for your kindness but when one has cherished & nurtured hopes & affections for so long it is very hard to bear up against their fruition & destruction. Plato has been a constant runaway, thief & rogue ever since his last master purchased him and none of the others want to see him back as he does nothing but robs them has been away 9 months whilst Mrs Fergus has buried her young husband and her brother will Come in for her personal property which is almost everything. She told me she intends to make a new Will in favour Of her 3 sons protecting their rights should she die She being in indifferent health though’s tough and nearly 60 & My function here is purely ceremonially freehearted I don’t believe in things and am no teacher. Mr Hockin Is a lawyer the less said the better, prizes himself on his good doing Has his apples polished and left by the door, is inappropriate, Extravagant, gallantly grotesque and sincere in that he don’t believe In heaven like a Chinese & from a household originally at Strowan, Affronted enough to go madly on his own dreadful subjects crying Whereon the illness and fatality of a beloved object gave him Nothing but a hard time giving her a bad time to which she Said ‘talk to me’ and he did in words fringed yellow, single Heavy-footed hefty cowards of elaboration just all round bad. He’s One of the most hostile villains who ever lived I wouldn’t say liar But inconsistent he’d have been different on paper but hearing His modulated speech which sometimes wasn’t him neither On account he was sleeping he should have come out Overwhelmed more like a lover than a departure & I don’t see How for all the world she kept him even though she’s enchanted By the strong sycamore and empty bed she has dedicated her being to Being that odd kind of prisoner who’s imprisoned by herself in all this. Listen, Mr Hockin doesn’t understand even one real reality Of the thing and is intolerably a shit and unsavoury, looking To exploit the deep advantages found inside sorrow. After that Things took their course through Hocking dead From my rifle from the store uphill of here To see off critters chasing my geese and fowl, & him buried near the river And the ruin of my body and age And ghosts and her going away. I made tracks landing a few weeks later compact and alive Stealing some brown nag I had to shoot three days ago On account of the advances of a bad lame and sleepy eye. I dream women right and wrong in many genres almost waking To new originality, crowded by rings of coffins, by lights Hanging like lanterns swinging in the darkness, cold and blind My hopelessness unfolds into the many midnights I am besides myself Mr Bridger has died cracked a heart in a strange room in a shining example of Stretching his age to its limit. I can’t remember whether I liked him nor if There was anything fine about him Actually I did and there was But we’re all philistines here especially The high poetry and fail to see what is viable in anything Except the difficult work inside where a part remains indestructible which You mustn’t find & is paradise or anyway some decisiveness of living. About this life well someone quoted me and it wasn’t me actually because I never said anything like that But it was good it was “Live as if you’re being framed”. Honest, you can’t help but stay annoyed In between the course of a personality Being diminished into unappeasable talk Night and day and on the other hand wherever you look there’s always someone Going to cause trouble and then they have about ten days at most. You look like your own corpse March sunlight by quince trees And life is hard on everyone and art should record that and so must be hard too. Maybe we have minds so dark here did the renaissance even take place? we Have to ask. Berryman said that When his sudden insight came for Beckett. I screwed a lot of them and seven or eight were serious but I listen to what is said and where people go and I don’t believe in things And rebel against obedience and plan to ignore the sensible advice The less said the better. They are frankly jerks and they wait to do good But ruin everything because they choose language That tries to be appropriate And mistake situations calling for extravagance as needing the very opposite. With dreadful subjects, we seem honestly better if needling hell wouldn’t you agree? The log won’t be reduced to ashes And has already started to rot its insides Softly outside the door So I’ll need to drag It away and refuse that pause When all the world stops and tenderness Is the day after and too late. The incumbent muse in silence waits What if a muse never speaks then perhaps there’s nevertheless something Of value in that muteness perhaps giving you not what you already know But what you desire anyhow. The couple from New York seems over-sensitive And she’s got no ass and says the body’s the least important bit it’s the soul That counts and is without doubt a spiritual fanatic and implausible but intelligent to a degree especially when about the church. A pigeon broke in And really with the way things are too many accidents and unfortunate degrees Of heat and cold – the weather is undoubtedly worse this time round – fortune Really does seem to amount to what you’re prepared to take. A year passes. What you notice straight away is how tiring your own judgments seem and Peevish and mean and at present the whole place seems a mess and by mess I mean myself. Across the lake the Cole brothers are fleecing everyone with Their sense of déjà vu which on one level is insanity but you know not every Experience is new and it’s not something you can just shrug off. I sat down And drank a cup of tea with fresh mint leaves that floated on the surface You have to drink through them and its disconcerting but at the same time Refreshingly what you imagine seawater would be like without the salt And its lethal vim. But she was the sort of woman who has an angle On her own physical wants that is intense without being tiring and it was easy To see here was trouble if I wanted it. These are strange times. Weeks later I was down in the valley with three mares and just the sound of my own blood In my hat. Pelicans on the far shore and other strange things come to mind Often in such places and I’m reminded of other times when things have been Desperate and not to say discouraging but somehow I’ve muddled through. But there’s no true isolation if you have voices in your head which is about Saying language makes us legion as the Bible says and also cursed or at least Demonic. That’s a thought for valleys and was the one that I carried with me Maybe because the stony ground was hot and reached bone and the carrion Seemed stripped of more life than normal which just shows there’s more life Than normal too. “I grow enviousness in your hollow lives” is what on a drunk Jeffrey cried one night his emotions dynamic outside the time she was saying She had more or less done with Mr H and would be soon going home. Distracted I might have proposed something but she had the air of one Inclined to put that aside, a stinking bitch already decomposing in her desolation. To Airth I am Airth sick of the lot of them in the fresh and open air All making their improvements and changes as if For some sake other than their own small commands Appearing compound, extraordinary and bitter and profoundly empty Reducing quickly it and something – everything - to their own assurances Which are worthless and like harassing the sun. Please Explain this to them someday will you I won’t and shan’t. What has been done wont get anything settled and I expect To hear from them again soon but in the meantime I need Hardly tell you how much I have been tried by the business Although our dear little Mary is in high spirits & runs about fearlessly & has health and intelligence and the kindness of inmates. Midnight here is individualism. I see fear without a rudder Mentioned, a bloody Cutter or some such vessel lingering about In the last events down by the lagoon and not particularised. Captain Duncan will be going abroad soon for seven years. And Inger has her energies all figurative and desirable I can’t help it A posse of cats playing around between her legs. I’ll proceed To Poonah from Surat after her or stay on the plea that it was too late For me to go or her to stay – besides, I am in much the same state As a man suffering from a krate bite each cardinal bold second ill-endowed. There’s madness and frenzy in her philosophy & well you should hear what Happened but you’ll never hear it from me but she said this before parting: ‘I think you are the only lover afraid to mention your passion’. Finally I am prepared to give up possession whilst at the same time shall Be most ready to facilitate any arrangements by which the Common Fate of All parties may be best conserved and I may be able to suggest some plan Which might prevent litigation and the consequent ruin of my pen. I don’t have a sole and only motive and neither do you so let’s forget that. Nights have come and in the parish of Lydd there is a tendency to shut down The old roads. No one replies to my letters and it all feels oddly distilled. I look around and feel nothing but repugnance. There is no good will at all. Stones are absently tossed about from a soft amorphous mass. Summer nights Are long and coarse and the feelings are like something they’d put on a wall Not feelings at all in fact and nothing essential. The black piglet Squeals like one of Mr Strinberg’s living wine-skins and I sit alone in a frieze Pining for autumn, winter, in the heart of shorelines and severe nature Where someone dies everywhere all the time and I frighten lurkers in shadows And my memories are small and naked, the future menacing And calls out to me like a woman in a house from quite another generation Where luminosity isn’t clearly arriving or quitting but is surely one or the other. I am holding my hands like paws over my ears so I can’t hear you Or the storm or the sea or expressionist wind blowing and scratching the walls And denying naturalism intensely terribly sketchily which amounts to A curious flavour of mixed expectations and fearful uncertainties That frightens many of the decent families round about here and Results in my being invited to fewer parties. It’s worth asking what it amounts to. Society looks like it will explode and we’ll merge into more than one figure Like kissing couples do or when at the window crossbar the curtains fly And shroud the figure there who is peeping out all lascivious and devious And spying in a great body of woman energy and spirit and autobiography Rendered deaf by an ecstasy of blood. That dog last night was no dog But molten flesh and wolf the sort of animal that blossoms and kills Waking, reclining, falling, concealing, standing the red forest in a thousand Generations holding hands hardly born and without tenderness where leaves carve sperm and halos the beauty and pain of this. The men were digging ditches all yesterday to run the water off and exhausted Rations so had to leave for rabbit vole rat squirrel making eloquent their epithets And gestures in compulsive theatrical gestures no doubt eluding metaphysics. Buildings pose as skeletons alive with dark smoke and nymph psychology And the ash and snow mix with dreams and I am fate and love and sad. Give me Christ a way of saying this exclusion is a final one and all I have is Fear and a vertical horizon bleached by your failing voice blossoming and dying. I snatch the ground and it in turn is shaking and disappearing as if at sea The faces are all trembling with a sickness that is fatal and loud and echoes. Last night I ate pigeon like an abstract impasto its skull white oil its beak Bare and quiet and I could hear the rain impressing itself like closeness itself The dead fowl lighter yet no wingbeat any longer could bear it up into the ether Instead its carcass bore the oppressive construction of space and terror. I cannot say what happened to all the women or who they are or those in chesnut shadows of nervous background prone and crayon stark. Here inside I see no background, simplification, dark shadows encroach my head A chamber of death and ardent sorrow and unmistakable disaster. I’m More a technique of unclear expression since you asked for childish subjects by which you meant no lovers kissing and so forth but my mood’s still tense My impresarios all pine trees, Count Harry Kessler and double exposures of stupidity. From the beach at Asgardstrand It has been proposed to mitigate the harshness and I have left And refused. Summer light’s always a straight face and transparent Features of the skin disclose a half disappearing inwards and there Are so many moths at the lamp these evenings I’ve had to admit to a religious Dimension as the shoreline is visible from the hill and the undulating sea Reminiscent of a kiss. luggage I think I licked her she too me and fortunately managed To put our luggage on board without loss of an article Out of the number of packages. My old friend Hawley I Shortly found on deck – 3 hours without any delay from stoppages. It is saying much that we lay as if in the very pit of the middle world A dark fresh double-reef and head-wind pricky and stingy Bellowing its condolences across our bows. What an arse This whole current is. I thought she would let it go without fuss This is not for tears was my last word to her and she agreed Grinned as she took a shot and bleured down half the side With the barrel. I barely alive slipped out from the original crime. The days have become one jarred clock after the next There is another here but it is out of reach and sight and sound Of where I tread so everything’s heavy and low and when I arrived there was salt in the air as well as morsels of teary flesh In her loon bird eyes. My manward chances were shame and more things Associated with extreme closeness, frugal underweight and damper pork. Your rigid thinking go kiss my arse. Nothing lies beneath, absolutely nought. flaneur The city is quiet and survived by departures and silences Woolen roads thread us and each light is pried open By voice or footfall or the extempore prayer of the face Each one unbearably present and baffled into this honey Beehive dawn or the last delayed moment in evensong. Did you get out in time or was it too hard and now grief And disquiet and words missing their vitals settle over tongues And eyes? I thought of you as one who might rise from the time Like a vast dolphin amongst black seething waves so your eye Seeks out land and a hurtling sky above, knowing too much the water Its spell and sprawl and kinks that burn frost into the inner chambers Of love and its vast nothing, until miraculous disappointments churn The rocks the velvet snow the red kite alone with the celtic sun And olden burial chambers dark below. That evening sitting on the log Some aching Spinoza shuffles his trembling hand in a blue plastic bag Lights a smoke and stares to the crazy lake and the restaurant Buzzing with light and people, god and mothers. It’s fate That smoke pioneers and spells into the chokeless air whilst Grass rustles and leaves start their inextricable lusts from spring branches. He is an old old old reality caught in the mirabile visu and is For real. The weather’s fine and his teeth strong, the flowing traffic Murmuring like the last chorus tamping down his furious loss So he lasts again one day one night fathomlessly. He blurs monumentally. He shimmers to the dew and the broken contracts and irregular knees. Eyes see the next thing beyond not him, go on to this, then this, then this Passing out to infinity without encampments taking down his particular grief And he too finds there’s less of his sought manner & more dead labour Living than last time. His shadow fleurs and notches business, Swooning into particles so fine they’re slipping through filters And gone. She went to see him in the delayed sounds of toddlers His stand still cornered her momentarily and quickly she hid Her nakedness under a dark thick covering of evergreen like Some unheeded state of ruin. There were two promises still yet existing Dilapidated & supported by pillars of wood. One hangs over the river Inaccessible to all but human eyes approached through a marsh, the other Further back on a second eminence commanding a bend in the river, Larger and in a glade of ash trees and vivid youth or untried beauty partly Umbraged by black woods. Children shout into the wide future. The tall buildings cover like brainfever the route to Mars. Cover is a cloud of gall, starved when luck ran out and no more breaks come. There’s one last maybe, one last time, but Spinoza is not flying And the bewildering traffic needs a caption because Spinoza Is only able to read now and remains majestic only with the flesh made word. What bullies him are the memories of gasps of love. What does he wish Between skinned fingers lothful soul? Perhaps a harmless decade or just to die Thursday On Thursday October 11 O’Clock we dropped anchor in quarantined ground Bearing a little yellow flag at the stern to designate the approach of the Custom House Officer. I am the man chewing more than he could bite strong as anchor King and queen blessed and sick, the plague on a rising tide, the bellow of the wounded bullock upriver, the collector of rats who releases plague to the law, who can be wherever you want me to be or nowhere, who can see hell in Your forgiveness and is blind to 3 o’clock curfews, who sightless fights or sings, who finds glory in the magpie and the jay, who knows how best to fray, Who shoulders an island of gloom, who bags dogs, sells watches, escapes at the last minute, falls down, jumps heaven, indicates dinner time, is immediate and then not, maybe dying, less circle than obdurate, appointed and sacked, a high one you hate and easy bones. What is your face? I buckle to the creak and its misty cloud of spray, the refuse of waters. I own many petrifactions of muscles And other small animals. A lucid transparency designated Trenton diamonds cut from rock which forms the river bed have left me disquiet. These fellows Bore me and when I asked them if their lives were missed opportunities They disliked me. Every vehicle raises resentment even upon innocent pedestrians. I wish to tell you more but am feverish and tedious. They dream of honour, me glory, And remember desperately Tenderness, the loving fuck A matter of elsewhere, a swiftly Hurting river tide You grandest of all grandeur most awful Named and vanished. Further to mrs calder’s predicament Mrs Calder, Somedays you think to pray. A manx shearwater flaps ridiculously on the cliff shelf and you walk by the fountain that’s tired and municipal Detaching your physical awareness and chicken stew From your mind shaft. You should drink more. Return your coupons, scratch the card and hope snear at young Mrs Brealy in a foam of perilousness. I am your unbeknown victim. Officials are talking about the dead at number 24. A bride of only so many years luminously bleeds. That phone call showed how small they were. Shows the lie of ‘everything is real’. Cor her legs. Cor her legs. When I dance I duck and flow. Rumfed bleeder catch the butterflies In a gunga net. I recall from a long struggle to free ourselves The eyes slowly slowly slowly closing. So, those screams last night? The valley of Mootaparinga is where expectations are constantly blighted. Are your sparks still the lights off of seething radio? Surveillance torments the dead and the living with role reversals and rents. I am the notorious slut. Is Catullus twitching? The grave’s no one’s goal you hole nor glory. The equation is missing even though The proof is there on the next page. Mipongo plains I don’t sleep. Jade and spun glass grind iron Whereupon green lilies slide across potato drills. Who needs dreams as these plains are scars of reverence. If pneumonia fastened on my pale lungs Journeys have always been amoebas of my final end. A clean knife, a used hoe, a fluctuated charm The world opens and quivers and abandons intent. Maize fields and graves, look into them, Take a view and stand back, excavate the rapacious looks. I lower my unconscious and my blade like a spider Turns and twists without volition without mind. They don’t see my propriety. They don’t reach me Til late. Work’s already done by then and they only Seek out whatever appeals to them and nothing else. I am a basilisk neither bird fish lizard but know There is no creature so alive as in this stillness. The bullocks smoke air into the cool morning Sturdy and fragile streams of life whilst their eyes Huge and china black shine in a way so mysterious Each light’s a black glacier vine an ice cave a frozen reserve Snow dunes and glass and delicacy. Here I’m aloof So what I say isn’t what I know. I penetrate colder.