Lyrics Don't Touch Dead Animals - Kayo Dot

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