jeru

(Part One)

The song’s begun…

Around and around the needle slinks, and with each passing bar the circle shrinks.

Around, 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 emanence lie in the pews 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 the 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 lowly animal with stomach on the wane.

Each morning baby’s six perfect toes and the six 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’s smaller still.

Analogous ariole becomes a paper with a hole.

Propellor of Death is a lucky whirl. No shining, climbing, silver stair. Found secret in a book I read, between pages one and a hundred-one. Reveals a druggy follicle, finding sweat, pounded ‘round some unliving pile.

Evasive with the vigor of vanity.

My constant shady articulation of form, an outside exaltante. Lapse a dog is symmetrical sermon on tape, to remind me–a translation of God into a comedy. I feel it’s iron and brick to a greater profanation. Here lies the exaltation 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 autonomous 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 what 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, uncertain… What I see is a marble spiralling ‘round a negative drain.

Originally from http://www.darklyrics.net/k/kayodot.html
Originally from http://www.darklyrics.net/k/kayodot.html