Don't Touch Dead Animals

Part one the song's begun

Around and around the needle slinks

And with each passing bar

The circle shrinks

Round and round and round she goes

And if reversed the circle grows

A hazy regard tethers me to the redbrick hill

Where it's always an early, misty grey

Whose eminence lay in the peas beyond the wall

And corralled its cloudy eye black to bleat

Some held out gusty day compelling me to give up

Constantly moving around buckets in a room

To catch blood only visible to the robin in grey

And blurred into the carpet by the stairs a rosy visionaire

Purposefully early came the ivy-gartered day

Sending to bed all the greater creatures and rousing every ruminant

See each low animal with a stomach on the wane

Each morning baby's eight perfect toes and the eight things they represent

I'm guiding blind and bleeding bodies in the bay

I'm guiding cold and congregating ululates by accident

Part two

We continue

Each tiny groove the needle fill

Contains within what smaller still

Analogous ariel

Becomes a paper

With a hole

Propellor of Death is a lucky whirl

No shiny climby silver stair

Found secret in a book I read

Between pages one and a hundred-one

Reveal a druggy follicle finding

Sweat and pounded'round

Some unliving pile

Evasive with the vigor of vanity

Lapse a dog is symmetrical

Sermon on tape to remind me

Translation of God into a comedy

My constant shady articulation of form

An outside exultante

I feel it's iron and brick to a greater profanation

Here lies the exultation of an ordained aberrant

There isn't any more time to mend all the moss in the mound

Each moist molecule replays the facts in an atomonous web of weary

I'm telling you this because I don't want us to be divided

Sojourn and walk a sightless vocation through the murky mezzanine

I'm standing atop the crystalline winter weaving

That troubles itself to sink in the skyless morning divided

Over and over, again and again, the whistling

Of the spectral bird that I'm riding

A parochial fistula in the furrow of a holy bazaar

Behold the gasp that's my inevitable punctuation

I can't stand in the sight of the eyeless morning divisa

Unpopular methods of cosmogonal factuous inimity uncreatin

What i see is a marble spiralling 'round a negative drain