Through the main windowpane, ordained vane of the rain, see the stain of cocaine.  EQ gain is insane while the turntable spins.  The crushed amphetamine blends with powdered caffeine; blue and yellow make green, for all sights must be seen.  See the glory of sins.  He's so high, and this old guy is reading to him with a Blakean cry under Keatsian sky, a Wordsworthian sigh, but it's all in his mind.  And he knows he wants more and goes back through the door, the pale ghost of before, but what's all of it for?  There's no reason to find.

Apostasy chords never made to be played, and their souls godly staid in the colors he made, for the lambs that he slayed will just kill all the goats.  In their sanctified need, the apostles' cold creed in its power and greed, watching once-angels bleed for our logs and their motes.  The signs of the two lines now crossed erase mine; the right angles define how the lion will dine on the flesh of the wolf.  Their once betrayed home will now cause them to roam from that horrible tome from the galaxy's loam.  It's no prodigal poem; they're condemned to the gulf.

The voices all deign that it’s hard to explain through the breakbeat refrain, and they cannot but feign the great push of the pull.  For the force of enigma reports of the source will divorce the remorse of the previous course; there’s a sheep in the wool.  Fanatically jeering, collectively cheering, appearing to those who were just interfering: no words in their throats.  Insanely the here of the clear frigid Spear will entreat each one to the millennial year; abandon those notes.

The table enabled in tomes of damned fables.  Unstable: the son of God born in that stable.  Herr Doktor still grins.   An inkling of pink light that blinks from the starsight that thinks in the clear night that makes his weak throat tight: the doomed prayer begins.  He’s a loon that will soon turn to bow to the moon.  Jejune doubt is significant in every rune.  He’s on needles and pins.  Aces of spaces; the glory of faces.  In work to describe, his mind races and paces: the spellweaving laces in intricate vases with infinite graces.  The record still spins.