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Lyrics for Flight by Hammill Peter:
| | | Artist: | Hammill Peter |
| | Album: | A Black Box | | Track: | Flight | | | | Date Added: | 18/10/2007 | | Views: | 208 | | | | Lyrics: | Flying Blind
I alway forget how crazy things are
so sometimes it catches me off my
guard
when they make sense.
The line on the road trail the arrow in the sky,
I
search for the mote in my brother's eye
beneath the pence...
a time of blunt
instruments.
Still uncertain when I've woken
or what constitutes a conscious
mind,
though the thought remains unspoken
I know I'm flying blind.
Breaking
into cold sweat on the white-hot coals
the pennies from heaven drop through my soul:
it
don't relent.
At the back end of dreams I'm amazed to awake...
I offer my theories but
just can't shake
that seventh sense
to which there's no defense.
It seemed the time
was for action,
it seemed so cool to be that kind...
my tongue writhed to form some
retraction
but I knew I was flying blind.
I want things to be fast, down to the
power-drive;
I want the zero-gravity heroes to play dead,
but stay alive.
We want
it to be slow, all the way to stall;
we talk about a thousand things that never change at
all.
No, it never change...
It was then that I knew I'd been thoughtless
-
something had slipped my mind:
I'd strapped myself into the Fortress
but the
Fortress was flying blind.
We got full clearance, so someone down there
ought to know the
truth of our disappearance -
If even that still shows it accuses and blames me,
but
nothing was quite what it seemed.
Sometimes things work out so strangely
that it
might as well all be dreamed.
The White Cane Fandango
The White Cane Fandango
in Morse code,
try to shake through the message,
shake the load;
only venial sin,
running on the spot -
till the dance begins.
Where does a man go when the muscles
cramp?
Try to write out a postcard on a postage stamp
with a drawing pin punching out the
Braille
for the whole within?
Upset the contango on your future stock;
paying
backwardation, hold onto what you've got -
such a sideways grin! Some day you may
need
to trade that in.
If we ride this right
the future will fall in our
hands.
If we survive the flight
the future will work out -
nothing's that black and
white.
Control
The colour-coded charts are spread,
but we're still
gliding deep into the red,
the radio is dead
every valve blown open.
The radar
screen flicks monochrome,
air traffic controller wants to get on home,
waiting for a
phone call
to release him from responsibility.
Nobody goes to see him any
more
except for the man from the ministry.
He wanted to be, he wanted to be
the
man at the helm, in command of the flightpath;
he's flying a chair, quite beyond
control;
he's going to have just one more chance
at a barrel roll.
All in a
dream, all as a dream,
the colours too bright, the music too deafening -
the black-out
world has just begun to show.
These cracked-out words I offer...
but I still don't
know.
Cool blue suffuse the colour gun -
oh come in, come in number one:
your
time's nearly run.
Speed-freeze the frame,
the present and the past hold fast...
It's
too fast, the thing don't,
the thing won't,
the thing don't
last.
Cockpit
The rolling dice clash together never make up the
score;
that old device, the ejector seat, glued to the floor.
Everybody waits for everyone
to make a show -
no-one wants to be the first, admitting that they know
how anythings
that's gone down here
could fit into an analytic groove...
Wait for the tactical
move,
wait for some action we all can approve.
Too much to drink, for the cup
reaches down to the sea;
too much to think, the barometer pressuring me.
Rolling down the
weather for an Easter parade,
reeling out the Maydays in the hope of being saved,
but the
radio ham's out giving blood -
no, no, no, he's not listening.
The cricketer knows his
"Wisden",
the pilot has got his "Jane's",
but the sum of this factual wisdom
don't
help us to fly the plane
(no, and it never will...)
Beneath the tartan two-piece
something rips undone...
Wait for the ladder to run
wait for the snake that the ladder
becomes.
A passenger hits the cockpit, willing to chance his game:
pulls out his gun
and cocks it
in the hope that it all might change. (oh, but it never will...)
A fly-leaf
from the library shows others have been here before,
tried, failed and kicked out the
door;
the aircrew don't care anymore -
not they just wait
for the beat of the
silk-worm wing,
wait for the heat to come down on us
- full force of the
law.
Silk-Worm Wings
Full force of gravity pulls me down,
I'll be better
off out of there;
aerobatic spin around,
I'll take my chances in the open
air.
Sycamore silk-worm wings
or Roman Candle to the ground,
there's only one
thing for shure:
when the balloon goes up
the aeronaut calm down.
He say
nothing is quite what it seems,
he say nothing is quite what it seems;
I say nothing is
nothing.
A Black Box
Softly, the angels sing their time and space
refrain:
there's something in everything if you can only pin down its name
Aerobatic
thoughts at the back of my mind -
Is it nothing but the looping line we all
follow?
Nothing but the spiral twist of DNA
There'll be no looking back from tomorrow on
today.
So the wire is tripped, split-seconds defect to their successors;
the
umbilical cord is ripped -
here we all are in free fall.
I stall where I am, as if to see
where I've been:
only running down the looping line we all follow,
only chasing down the
spiral twist of DNA -
There can be no looking on to tomorrow from
today.
Life/death/night/day - cold breath will surely fly away.
Is the empire of
sensation locked in a black box
deep in me, encoded there somehow?
It fires the
imagination to fly on a wing and a prayer
through my life - is that how it is?
There'll
be no looking back on this...
this is now, which will be then -
is this the means? All I
know for shure is
this is the end.
No looking back from tomorrow,
no,
there'll be no looking back on today;
better be looking on to tomorrow...
better think
on today.
All lyrics by Peter Hammill
Published by Hit and Run Music
Publishing Ltd.
Printed by permission.
S-type records, 55-59 Shaftsbury Ave., London
W.I.
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