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lirik lagu a crater to cough in – 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 snowlight, 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 will this miniature death tributize?
from behind the walls of my broken coughing tent, a formal vision.
but i allude to my helpless p-ssion for the obtuse.
when will this night end?
when the lightning 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.
rejoice! revel in this vision, a formal visitation.
rejoice! rejoice! 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 judgements that you made were true.
now 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.
it’s 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 it’s at the center of the storm.

oh moon, thou 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, 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.
perfectly imperfect, like a storm.
perfectly imperfect, like a storm.
perfectly imperfect, like a storm.

rejoice! rejoice! the pawprints lead us gently
to our grave, dragged and bound, to the grave, by our mane,
to our grave, dragged and bound, to the grave, by the scavenger’s tooth.
by our mane, dragged and bound, to the grave, by our mane,
to the grave, dragged and bound, to the tomb, by the scavenger’s tooth.

- circle takes the square

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