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Lyrics for Faint Heart And The Sermon by Hammill Peter:
| | | Artist: | Hammill Peter |
| | Album: | In Camera | | Track: | Faint Heart And The Sermon | | | | Date Added: | 18/10/2007 | | Views: | 189 | | | | Lyrics: | With my face drained of colour
and my brain of blood
like Billy Budd
I'm lashed to
the grating;
with senses growing duller
and with quaking heart
I make a
start
at temperature equating
and my lungs suck useless air.
Like paraplegic
dancers
in formation team
my understanding seems
hiidebound in its
movements,
contemplating answers
that could break my bonds--
to be half
wrong
would be, in me, improvement...
but my comprehensive faculties are
impaired.
And it seems absurd, but now all I've heard
fades in empty words and is
worthless
as the Human Laugh rocks the cenotaph
but the joke is half-true, and
mirthless.
Trying to trace a reason
from the spinning words
but all I've
heard
seem at odds with their meanings,
phonetically pleasing
but delivered in such
haste
that in their place
my mind commences screaming.
On the verge of belief
I crash onto the reef
and a cynical thief steals my senses,
so I cling to the pew with
dimensions askew,
and recognition refuses present tenses.
All the lives of the saints
demonstrate that my faint
is a minor complaint, but the end is
nowhere in
sight,
why can't I find me a way to go?
I don't want to die in the nave,
but
I know it may be with me some day
so I've got to find a way I can save up
my evergies, and
find a cause to pray
so something for something
to which I can give my
creed...
I'd gladly succumb to the wave,
if I thought the water taught a way to
light;
I'd gladly succumb--I'm not brave,
and it's easy to believe what the preacher
says
except for the conflict raging between my head
and my brain.
I don't want to
die, but just the same--
some day....
Waiting for that moment
that I know
will come
when I'll have to run
and find another sermon...
Everyman and
Norman
and the talking priest--
still, I am at least
holding all the doors
open.
Inside me all outside is shared.
As the cracked bells peal it all seems
unreal
but the seventh seal stays unbroken
and the Offertory plate tenders no
escape--
still I refuse to scrape up a token
of esteem for these false
alleyways
of the course;
I must try to divorce sense from sensing.
Tell me again,
tell me
the way to go.
So when I talk to myself
although I take good care to listen
my
heart grows ever more faint--
there's something missing?
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