CIRCLE TAKES THE SQUARE – Decompositions – Vol I. Chapter 1. Rites of Initiation (2011):
i. Enter By The Narrow Gates
“All Hope Abandon Ye Who Enter Here.”
-Dante, The Inferno
Bring forth the Light,
To raze colonies
In a single cleansing breath.
Don’t sleep, my queen;
The sun rises one less time
Than it will set.
Now overhead, the stars
That guided our forebears
Have turned to dust.
And underfoot, the churning
Framework of this earth
Succumbs to rust.
Bring forth the Light.
These dreams of Thunder displace,
Dismantled spirit’s burnt bare-
Sylphs in the shards resounding,
“Open to the Field!”
Depatterned, floating in Grace,
Mapping the fragments…
“For to awaken and reassemble,
Enter by the narrow gates.”
All has been inscribed
In the footnotes of time,
From the rising dead
To the falling rains;
From these proving grounds
To the burial mounds
Of fallen satellites’
Skeletal remains.
From a timeworn note’s
Subtle feeling-tone,
To the coiled scales
In this mistaken mode.
Felt the birch bark walls
Of the temple shake,
When those who from heaven,
To this earth came.
From Eleusia
To the Killing Fields;
From the Promised Land
To the coming plague;
From the trenches of
Every whispered war,
To the future wreckage
Of the Large Array.
For the gate is wide,
And the way is broad,
That delivered me
(Insufferable in-between)
From the fleeting dawn
To this endless night,
In the labyrinth
Of the Iron Kings.
Now my footsteps take precedence as the traffic sounds fade,
And this city’s lungs have purged their last breath.
I’m held captive at the curb before the World’s End Lane,
Where I pledge my self to uncertainty.
From this shattered breaking point each new step must be
Nothing short of the saddest act of sorcery.
In search of that fleeting adversity,
O, merciless emptiness, that used to possess me…
So farewell Persephone, at rest on the altar,
Who dared to merge stone with the skies.
What curses of men guard the bridges you built, dear?
What doorways, what star-gates have you left behind?
So I’m following stardust, what’s left of the twilight,
To get to that last jagged line.
To the edge of the earth by the age of rebirth.
I’ll dissolve, end this realm, and reclaim what is mine.
Take in the knitting air,
Part with the cleansing breath,
Destiny turns the soils in which we manifest.
Suffer the burning coals,
Yield to the spiral tides,
Peer into the darkness, that all may be defined.
(swing wide the narrow gates)
ii. Spirit Narrative
Stalking the formless
Collapse,
She strings me along…
Vapor trails,
Disappearing tracks;
Entanglement unwinds
In threads of golden error.
What strange attractors ahead,
Lie awake in wait?
Crossing this fertile
Expanse,
To commune with the life-less…
Spirit narrative,
Rite of passage;
Progress is paralysis
When poison is my path.
I’m laid to rest,
Just to rise again.
Hell-bent circuits-
Shadows speak through the frequencies.
Heaven-sent asylum-
One psychotic break and the veil recedes.
Channeling devastating
Revelations of the method
From the other side of Somewhere.
From the endless halls of Elsewhere.
In some mythic story arc I wake;
Hand pick your pleasure, feast, then fall from grace.
Fabled
Decline;
Within
The text
Resides
My next
Shape Shift
Time Slip.
Listless,
When the hammer drops.
To be still,
When the narrative breaks down.
Holding centre
Under shelter
Of this altered state.
At rest,
In the restlessness
That was forged
In this state of changing phase.
All structure failing:
God’s forsaken sanctuary.
In field of view
Her solid state
Our passing tryst
Just melts away
Sublimate
The Great Divide
The Grand Design
Defected
Solidify
The Great Divide
Our cells collide
The Grand Design
Deserted-
Demiurges running free.
Arcing archangels-
Only resonate out of sympathy.
Summoning shocking
Demonstrations of the method
From the chambered heart of Nowhere
(Where the feedback feeds on echoes).
Baiting the feral
Demise,
On the heels of Culture…
Another crippling analysis,
Unraveled
Dreams now interpret me,
At the trail’s end of this
False Awakening.
iii. Way Of Ever-Branching Paths
“Reality is not always probable, or likely.”
-Jorge Luis Borges
At your doorstep
Cloaked in negative space
First frost aches
To lay its claim
At the threshold
Between without and within
First foot prints
Disgrace the virgin soil
Ignoring refusal
Let the winter in
Indian Summer
Defiant forever
Let winter have its way
Through hollow insides
Made of branching halls
First step falls
Vanishing reasons
I chose this course
Death is in season
Inward to source
INITIATION
Vanishing reasons
I chose this course
DISINTEGRATION
Death is in Season
Step inside…
One thousand faces
Stare back from their fractured origin
In turn
Turn another corner
And lose my place
A blue print for disorder
The Way of Disarray
Backward glare
Burnished obsidian walls
Reflect the endings
That will never…
Unfold
Fold the corners over
To hold my place
The panic feels so familiar
In a breath-work maze
Clear the air
Ceremonial smoke rings
Fill the creases
Where the trauma collects
You better keep your thought forms clean
How we, the Conjured, seek
To breach the compass of this dream
Illumination
Elimination
Tangental slipstreams
Derail our train of thought
Stationed in fog
Composing
Decompositions
In constant revision
Infinite indecision
Encaged
Within a finite space
Help me hide it away
Under thin coats of cracking paint
Under smothering soundscapes
Where every layer I’ve made
Competes for a place
Enchanting parlor tricks
And slights of hand
Made me a god
Here in obscurity
Confined to making believe
So help me wish it away…
But how long
Yeah, how long
Before I’d beg to bring it back into life?
To bring it into the blue grey
The Grey matters
Matters of the Maker
Mark and Measure
Locus of control
Order, theorized
Crooked, our belief
In the straight line
Leave room for failure
One fatal mistake
That human touch
Planning its own obsolescence
The scent of senescence
Permeates
Our vast potential
Fated to fade
Our monuments
Willing its own expiration
Ground to powder
Chaos, improvised
Stolen fire
Blessed are the thieves
In these end times
Distill it down into a single line
Meet the demands of the mountainside
Compromise is such a loaded word
When landslides are singing
Hermetic melodies
Only we could hear
We clutch the chords
Forgotten anthems reappear
Encoded messages
Only we could speak
In native tongues
Ancient strains have gone to seed
Entangled crossroads
Only we could see
Beyond the fear
Our new creation will be gleaned
From the wastelands
Of the insincere
Winged beauty she looms
Inside a derelict cocoon
Inspiration strikes
Under flashing flood lights
Winged beauty emerge
To search this tortured world for new growth
Resurface, Recreate, and Redeem
Shades
Of night
Blossoming
Within
These Laced
Pathways
Of Hekate’s
Garden
Retrace
Mind streams
Following
Her lead
Wellsprings
Whispering
The Rites of
INITIATION
I chose this course
DISINTEGRATION
Inward to source
PREVERBERATIONS
Follow the stations
Through branching halls
ANNIHILATION
Fever breaks my fall
Dionysus, good heavens
You’ve gone to pieces
In search of closure, you went within…
Everything and Nothing
Clashed
In counter movements,
Rotating spins-
A dream,
A dream
And nothing more.
Chart the startling curves
Of your dementia
(No way out)
Map the staggering depths
Of one dimension
(No way out)
Like clockwork witchcraft
One must suffer to pass
Suffer to Pass
Like clockwork witchcraft
My dreams now abandon me
Suffer To Pass
In time, you’ll add my shadow
To your overspilling urn
And match my every move
Step for step, turn for turn
Reclaimed by a destiny I revoked
A trajectory, resigned
Writhing
In surrender
Storm clouds gather in this altered state
Hard-wired
To the recklessness of perception
Bathed in artificial light
Steeped in fabricated time
Storm clouds gather in this altered state
Ever-spinning,
The Great Wheel:
Void of progress.
Ever-Branching,
The Great Work:
Grieve the dying
Dying art
Art of process
Tunnel visions
Wander without aim
Through the Gauntlet.
Spirit Guides,
Forward Exits-
Disembodied nights
Shrouded in war paint;
Losing mind
To behold
The Other side
iv. The Ancestral Other Side
“He who dies before he dies, does not die when he dies”
-Abraham of Santa Clara
Take hold
If we fall before we fall, we do not fall when we fall through
Take hold
If we fall before we fall, we do not fall when we
Take hold
If we fall before we fall, we do not fall
Take hold
If we fall before we fall, we do
There are forces at work here beyond
This Realm of Self in which we reside
A call to consciousness with no response
Another view from that vanquished other side
May this healing crisis
Unmask the faceless
All those who occupied my peripheries
(Fever Builds)
Silent flakes of snow bite your tongue
Until their angles and hardlines grow soft
Atomic winter, a drifting dormant sun
Boundaries and bridges all a blur
Your life spans, my disconnected dots
(Fever Breaks)
May this healing crisis
Make known the nameless
Who colonized my soul
When the other side took hold
Hiding in a healer’s
Sacred heart, the worst disease-
Caverns of atria,
Black holes of empathy.
Where pale and distant
Shapes made of shadow speak
Forms in a feedback loop
Of abandoned memory…
Allied in our open wounds,
We bleed venom and wild flowers bloom,
They give way
To the side-winding vine,
To the brambles of time.
Love’s first creation was loss.
Red-shifted horizon looms,
Echo chamber of self-imposed solitude
Mass and weight fall away
My true nature escapes
What was boundless now stands consumed.
Refiner’s Fire
Ancestral Flame
MAKER OF LIGHT
Radial Voices
Recursive Planes
Engaging only this moment,
While the patterns erase
Mandalic sand
BATHED IN BLOODLINES
A desperate plea to stay present,
In the ember’s embrace
Non-attachment retreats
In a pillar of steam
Another mantra in splinters
At the Maker’s feet
Precepts deconstructed,
Focus, going astray
I refuse to Burn
Falling Forward
Through fevered visions,
Silence devouring its own tail.
Unbroken circle,
Grant us the crisis needed to heal,
Through fevered visions,
Silence devouring its own tail.
Unbroken circle,
Grant us the crisis needed to heal.
CIRCLE TAKES THE SQUARE – AS THE ROOTS UNDO (2004):
1. Intro by Circle Takes the Square
[No Lyrics]
2. Same Shade As Concrete by Circle Takes the Square
Rejoice, rejoice a noble birth, a prince is born.
Behold the birth of violence, beasts of fang and feather cry for our concrete rapture,
and if we beg to be put down, unto us the most inspired storm.
A princess ravaged by her prince behold; the birth of sex and distance, two frail corpses both were they, his eyes were the first to stray… every tree held fast the earth to sky.
Concrete replaces every branch and twig as they were frayed upon the birth of ambition. The heavens filled our gilded vessel with poison tears, before we drink, I propose a toast, a final prayer.
Here’s to the watchers in the wood, here’s to the last days, unto us a most inspired song.
Shaper, stop the music.
Halt the harp strings whose chords confuse our histories with textures.
With the disheartened chorus of a hymnal whose choir is the conviction of the starving, artless, tempted by the feast of proof that this body of work has worth.
Uncertain as the fingering of a chord torn prematurely from a piano’s womb.
As we fill our precious lungs with concrete, that faithful shade, a shaper’s song is stopped short- a dying breath a singing shore.
Then the only movement and the last remains of grace:
Pollen falling off the simple hinge joint leg upon the final breath of a dragonfly.
A cardinal, lost but headstrong in mid flight cries for our concrete rapture, wade…
in the water, wade. Let the flood swell, thank the storm for her tears.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god’s will
but the fool knows what the prophets have seen, no salvation’s impending.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god’s will let the flood swell and the bodies that break we’ll just float down the river. Stay tame, soft river, while we weigh our faith, stay sweet, run softly, sweet river, the fool who wades in doubt will float like concrete.
Come and fill your lungs. Come and fill your lungs.
There’s so much hope buried underneath tragedy, its the same shade as concrete.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god’s will, let the flood swell
on the loudspeaker sermons and a parish descending.
There’s so much hope buried underneath tragedy, its the same shade as concrete.
Let the flood swell.
3. Crowquill by Circle Takes the Square
Nothing’s so lucid as the promise of dreams, but these pills we found just make me sleep.
There’s nothing quite so pure as the written word my dear, so lets have ourselves a little poem.
Until the will to speak loses urgency.
Our animal indecency in print is so blase.
Its about the bell tower, at the golden hour.
Angel of the spires climbs here steel cage staircase spine, angle of desire.
Ascend the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung.
Is it the rising roof line that makes me feel so swallowed whole,
or the way my body barely pricks the sky,
the same as a century’s worth of virgin’s blood that’s passed through my longing veins,
scheming to convince my aching mind that pleasure’s got nothing on the miracle of need.
Nothing’s so purile as meter and rhyme when you can’t see the ground from that ledge and this perch is so far, far from the nest.
Gravity doesn’t grant me the privilege of failure my bough never breaks
I don’t stumble into anything
so I climb and I carve my initials in the bark with that feather I found but its all so contrived.
My genes didn’t bless me with the foresight of a sage but I know how this will end, in apologies and ink on the page.
A slowly constructed crow quilled confession of my spirit to all of you,
black waterproof ink scars the board, so hot-pressed, pristine and pure.
A slowly constructed manifestation of “to tremble”,
as base as a bridge in a song and less like the poem that I promised you.
Nothing’s so lurid as haiku-detat on sidewalks in white outlined chalk,
all I’ve got is this ink smeared lines.
With our voices in harmony, the offering, of a crow quilled threnody.
4. In The Nervous Light Of Sunday by Circle Takes the Square
Whispers invoke the artists of this tragically seemless, ill fated tapestry,
blistered fingers are tending their loom.
She collects the strands to braid into life.
Logging the weft of an ageless, woven infinity, countless raw fibers are clawing the frame.
A woman’s work is never done, but the final stitch has got to come,
and so three witches contend to slice the very last thread
(that you curse, curse constantly)
But nothing’s immortal, and comfort is not guaranteed-
a yearling who bears our sincere passions is chosen, frozen and quivering,
like a thread in the wake of a blade.
So we compromise, so we sacrifice.
Compromise nothing, but that which secures a comfortable life, risk as the indication of a healing sacrifice.
Destroy the altar whose boundaries tides will never exceed, ignite the pyres underneath a sedated mythology.
Five decades his lifetime, and his life’s work is just fading scratches in stone.
She tends the numerals, counting fingers, counting her toes.
Keeping track of the time racing, years wasting
(dance to the sound of his weight bearing back breaking)
infinite ages the length of this quilt’s making.
And we dance, we dance in the stronghold…
That you curse, curse constantly, of the needle’s sheen.
Do you feel this thin strand resting in a pinch?
That’s the thread that you curse, curse constantly.
An eternal patch on a quilt that hangs from a wall in a throw frought with our decay…
From six states away, five years of guilt postmarked four days before my escape.
All I ever asked was for a clean break.
In the first nervous light of the day,
collecting the novels whose scribes sought to keep me contained.
My dad’s favorite novel on top of the pile, in the self concious first light shake the memory of his smile, igniting these volumes, igniting these volumes I’m warmed by the flames.
Alter the deafening earthen tones…
In the nervous light, I dance in the nervous light and I’m warmed by the flames.
Dance to the sound of his weight bearing back fucking breaking.
Alter the pitch of his weight bearing back breaking, dictate the pitch of his weight bearing back breaking,
Alter the tone of your weight bearing back breaking, we can mend all the seams that were torn during our backs slowly breaking.
In the nervous light…
5. Interview At The Ruins by Circle Takes the Square
Hide the petals underneath that bedroom floorboard
and they will wither without fail or success.
Put the people in the hollow box they crafted,
bolt the doors and watch them perish.
Its a cautious descent, so polite and pensive at first.
But the only truth is change, have patience
(every hundredth year, a single breath and then its over…)
Even if only for a minute for a minute its over.
Even if only for a minute.
So brave in the face of all those roots that ruin,
to stand so tall when in fact in ruins.
To face that corner of the box and dive in,
just the sound alone of its humble breath.
A murmur from the ruins echoes softly as the roots undo, and the branch becomes…
6. Non-Objective Portrait Of Karma by Circle Takes the Square
Ignorance is bliss no wise woman’s failed to mention
and surely some koan suggests ‘neglect leads to perfection’
but the more I turn my face from the crowd
the more I feel my backs’ increasingly compelled
for the sake of escape, to turn a knife on itself,
a knife of relief, from all the petty insight
and finally I’ll sleep, I’ll sleep through the night.
Bored as fuck with this street corner-cover.
study of a face in a figure. surveying this language as a game
surveilence of this language as the plague.
the dimension of persistence condemns.
This portrait of karma, crafted in accident
text book seduction, minus the text in the language of ghosts
and so we ran, like the wolves were biting,
the inhibitions of their prey kept them from screaming
“scratch my back and I will stab you in yours”
so I chose to live this life alone, without the teeth marks
but I predict, I’ll have to sink my fangs in someone else’s heart to heal my own.
just a victim’s split, one part for the wolves, one part for you.
but I’ll grow weary soon, weary of this fractal code,
weary of this hallway lined with ghosts.
just a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to let them in
their words will cause the sweetest fracture from a stone’s throw
just a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to welcome them
parasitic, viral critics, or lovers, like spirits mingling in the mist
that we crafted, a starving jury, let them eat shit from our trembling hands.
The heat for heat’s sake, on this Barnard block of Congress
deductively speaking, the polar of progress
well maybe I put too much faith in the accident
entranced, we danced toward the ripest display of escape
let the starving ghosts feats, from this flesh, from these bones,
let them all feast. In this chess game of language, forced to sit so I play all alone, watch the bathos drift forth like the petals from a wild crafted rose.
7. Kill The Switch by Circle Takes the Square
Mouth the words to deny, deny the symptoms, as ‘oh yeah I’m doing fine’, as I’ve found a most endearing psychosis.
Somewhere out there there’s a thrill I swear. Desperate as I am I just can’t strip bare and bleed the only purity I’ve known.
But I lay with reason. Found logic concieved in a walk with skin. I lay with reason producing these monsters.
Under painted catcalls as in temptation. yeah there’s a key to be in, but there’s no shade, no shade to blame.
Waterfalls in a cool grey, and the struggle is colored grey this day. The caw of crows fills up the picture plane.
Our picture plane is veiled in central neutral grey. Absinthe to slight the pain. This world’s this worst case color scheme.
Streaks of oil stain, stained the road he crawled on homeward.
Oh yeah, oh yeah he killed the switch with some unwieldy gauge, absence and light remain.
I lay with reason found logic and reap in a walk with sin. El sueno razon produce monsinios.
When does this dream end? Now I’ve missed another whole season,
I’ve missed the fall, clearly its fallen on this land as fields once green are ochre now.
This is no dream. Trees have turned to skeleton, roots teased and knotted just below the surface skin of ground.
Stitched between the earth and the sky struggling to hold it down.
Sometimes to realize you have to lose track of sight blurring my vision makes it clear the tiny moving parts make up the whole.
The image is clear, a tower is built of my own pride, I cry in the shade that if offers, the only shelter I’ve known.
When does this dream end? This is no dream. This is the walking living breathing caricature of a memory.
Shamelessly I cave in to temptation of creation. But still my only thrill is empty sidewalks, silent streets.
The caw of crows fills up the picture plane. This is your picture plain in central neutral grey.
This world’s this worst case color scheme. Streaks of oil stain, stained the road he crawled on homeward.
Oh yeah, oh yeah he killed the switch with some unwieldy gauge, absence and light remain.
Life is lowly anonymity, in death a noble pose, a Marat David.
Tell me who wouldn’t give their lives for such a soap box to die behind. Life is lowly, lowly anonymity.
In the space of a smile I found sleep. As in sorrow, so shall ye reap, as in reason so shall ye sleep.
Reap the promised end to the struggle. Reap every point on our linear path.
Reap the smiles in time we borrow, every harvest relies on the last.
Reap the promising song of the sparrow, that they learned from the birth of sea.
Silenced by the threnody of the crows. Reap the fallen fruit of the dogwood tree.
But I witnessed in all this silence one souls definition of beauty. a backlit smile so temporary.
A facade so rich with evil history. Cast in direct opposition set to overwhelm his moment to shine and sleep-
came out on top of what was borrowed, and found all that beauty to be still.
Every breath as in sorrow, reap the promised end to this path, by every image that we borrow, every harvest depends on the past.
Subdivide in factions our linear forever, we subdivide our waking hours to sleep.
While guilty eyes turn toward a porchlight, enlightenment is losing sight.
Somewhere out there there’s a thrill I swear. In this low light town when my shift begins the streets reflecting yellow, yellow, yellow in the vacancy that overwhelms the red, red, red, your vehicle the color of expansion.
“Open up.” the latter just a thought to thrill me “knock knock knock” the latter just a thought to thrill me.
“Red” is a four letter word. Four letter invitation. Now my head is locked in the direction of the sun…
Life is lowly anonymity, in death a noble prose, a Marat David.
Tell me who wouldn’t give their lives for such a soap box to leave behind.
Life is lowly, lowly anonymity. I know its all been done before, I want to do it again. I want do it again.
Kill the switch.
This night our journey’s through the dark.
Kill the switch, a welcome comatose, tonight we journey through the darkness.
As in sorrow, so shall ye weep, as in reason, so shall ye sleep.
8. A Crater To Cough In by Circle Takes the Square
This path that we walk upon is the collection of points that the rain has drawn.
The rhythm section of the storm.
By the moonlight to the gateposts of the forest,
in the snow light, we are bound for the portal of the pines.
Grey as famine, on this path against our will by our main sails we’re bound to the tempest until the sea is still.
Which compulsion with this miniature death tributize?
From behind the walls of my broken coughing tent, a formal vision,
but I allude to my helpless passion for the obtuse
When will this night end?
When the lightening finally tears through the mast of our sinking ship.
All the hopes of the slaves are betrayed by the grates.
On this coffin of a vessel every note’s another breaking wave.
Revel in this vision, a formal visitation, on the night with the light from above.
Famished dogs follow slowly as my own paws drag me to a dock,
to the last plank where I struggle to deny myself the path that every Pisces craves,
just above the water in the middle of that man-made lake.
On that pier I turn my eyes from the water like a mirror of myself in the moonlight,
and I cough for every crater that I could see,
on the surface of that coffin we’ve come to call the moon.
Now I wonder if all those judgments that you made were true.
And the trapdoor of the solstice is thrown wide, wide open.
Let them all sink, let them all sink through.
The talking, the spinning of a web- its all just formal ritual.
The burning.
The burning question “what do you deserve?”
The gazing at a candle to find calm, but we all know its at the center of the storm.
Oh moon, though pluckest me out, oh moon-
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall and walked among the lowest of the dead
(to Carthage then I came).
Only the most sacred crater will suit my burial,
only the most sacred choir performs this ritual dirge.
Perfectly imperfect, like a storm.
By our mane dragged and bound to our grave by our mane,
to the grave dragged and bound to the tomb by the scavenger’s tooth.
These Circle Takes the Square lyrics are brought to you by The Flood, a Circle Takes the Square fan site.
CIRCLE TAKES THE SQUARE – SELF TITLED (2000):
1. Our Need To Bleed by Circle Takes the Square
Flesh was to sever, a palette to harness the pain. With stainless steel, we took back control of our fate. His skin so fair, a newly stretched canvas. (here was born a filthy blood red mark)Redemption dies hard when you’ve ripped out the roots at the seams. Pins and needles bled our black blood hearts. Hold the knife closer, just nine more steps toward the gate…You’ve already swallowed the key.
Have you ever heard a scream this for real? Have you ever shattered silence…
Perpetuate the unpredicted, dying for these scars we wear. Scars are tokens of the present. Refusing to accept our share of shit.
Scars are forever, a testimony to our needs, undaunted by our shallow lives, our need to bleed. Flesh was severed, a testimony to our needs, undaunted by our fragile lives, our need to bleed.
Undaunted by our fragile lives. Our flesh was severed to the bone.
2. Eleven Owls Have Eyes by Circle Takes the Square
Surface, through the circuits, breaker breaker. Someone’s calling but there’s no one on the line. Positive, negative, negative, Breaker breaker. These wires are live, these wires are merging with the circuits, Breaker, breaker. Broken fuses spark, lighting, illuminating their blacked out eyes. Fading out…Father son and holy ghost…you can’t find us in the dark. You can’t save us when wires are cut. Houses haunted hurt the most. Vulnerability is created and defined by the night. Fall is getting closer. Ruled by the moon. Now that we’re hiding in the darkness holding hands, now as we pray, as we are prey. Lead the way. Don’t leave me bound here in desire, lead the way forever is too long to wait. Time keeps on pulling the seconds away, preaching abandonment, intentions remain to embrace the sweet impossible. Time succumbs to the rhythm of a slowly fading pulse. Lights from flashlights flash on breakers, loose connections connected tight. Symmetry described by the minds intent. Eleven birds of prey take flight. Asymmetrical equations, borne to lack diurnal sight. Brown eyes begging her consent. White old woman of the night:
Right behind the lightening staring past the rain. Running down the red clay. Time succumbs to the rhythm of a slowly fading pulse…
3. Disclaimer To The Self by Circle Takes the Square
The demons swallowed treasures, replaced hymns with evil deeds scribed in chicken scratch compositions in the black halls beneath this filthy city. Laced with shit, this love affair all black hearts, and tragic heights. Keep on listening to our sanguine symphony. We’ll keep conducting the color of midnight. When the muse whispers her forked tongue lulls me to sleep.
You must be mistaken my darling. This is not the prelude to a kiss, this is obsession, void of aesthetics, lacking compassion, a disclaimer to the self, you sought your god in the tempest of self severed strings hammered out in the key of X.
This is the new cutting edge. Sixth sense limitations dragging me down. Your transcendence of nothing has fueled the flames of our choir. This is my therapy, singing the praises of razor wire.
Embrace the sweet sound of self destruction.
Wield words like knives and razor wire. A kiss goodbye is a kiss of death. Conducting our ballad with seven broken strings. A sound so sanguine until our ears bleed. Orchestrating until we bleed.
4. Comes With The Fall by Circle Takes the Square
Shaking she’s fearing that inside it’s growing. Why can’t they see? (feeding on the sunrise) Why can’t they see? They’re sprouting, why can’t they see…they’ve taken their root in her womb…Feeding on the sunrise. picking my veins like a murderess murerous warmth take hold of me. Scratching through me.
They created this guilt, right?
They provoke all this shame, right?
They thrive on our guilt, right?
It’s not just me alone in this cage?
Steal back the secrets of heaven and earth vs. striving to fulfill the purgation of dreams. Purging to fulfill the starvation of dreams. All of them witches, breaking a fast with the rise of the sun.
5. Houdini Logic by Circle Takes the Square
Chanting in the darkness for just one taste. Screaming bloody mary until my mirror breaks. Cheating on reason for just one glimpse of the disease riding on your lips.
Lay reason to waste.Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
Breaking into you. Is like waking, waking the dead.
Burning inside you. Is like waking, waking the dead.
Burning inside you. As you bury, bury your dead.
How much did she see? She stole my skin, I lost it all of what shed. I lost it all to that flicker of pearly white. Those nails did lay rest another chaste and serpentine(lunar) sacrifice on the eighth or ninth.
6. In The Nervous Light Of Sunday by Circle Takes the Square
Whispers invoke the artists of this tragically seemless ill fated tapestry. Blistered fingers are tending their loom. She collects the strands to braid in to lives. Loggin the weft of an ageless woven infinity. Countless raw fibers are clawing the frame. A woman’s work is never done. But the final stitch has got to come and so three witches contend to slice the very last thread.
That you curse, curse constantly. Tie the knot.
Nothing’s immortal, and comfort is not guaranteed. A yearling that bears our sincere passions, is chosen, frozen and quivering, like the thread in the wake of a blade.
And so we compromise, so we sacrifice.
Compromise nothing, but that which secures a comfortable life. Risk as an indication of a healing sacrifice. Destroy the altar whose boundaries tides will never exceed. Ignite the pyres, underneath a sedated mythology.
Five decades his lifetime, and his life’s work faded scratches in stone. She tends to numerals, counting fingers, counting her toes. Keeping track of the time racing years wasting. Dance to the sound of his weight bearing back breaking. Infinite ages the length of this quilts making. And we dance, and we dance in the stronghold… that you curse, curse constantly.
Do you feel this thin strand resting in a pinch? Held strong by the needle’s sheen. Thats the thread that you curse. That you curse constantly.
An eternal patch on a quilt that hangs from a wall in a throw frought with our decay. An eternal patch frought with our decay, remembered forever til it goes away. From 6 states away, 5 years of guilt postmarked 4 days before my escape. My dad’s favorite novel on top of the pile in this self conscious shake the memory of his smile. Igniting these volumes, igniting these volumes I’m warmed by the flames.
Alter the deafening earthen tones, in the nervous light, I dance in the nervous light and I’m warmed by the flames. Dance to the sound of his weight bearing back fucking breaking. Slowly breaking.
Dictate the deafening earthen tones
Alter the pitch of his weight bearing back breaking
We can dictate the pitch of our weight bearing back breaking
Alter the tone of your weight bearing back breaking
We can mend all the seams that were torn during our backs slowly breaking.
In the nervous light, the nervous light of Sunday.
These Circle Takes the Square lyrics are brought to you by The Flood, a Circle Takes the Square fan site