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Hammill Peter
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1
Flying Blind
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I alway forget how crazy things are
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so sometimes it catches me off my guard
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when they make sense.
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The line on the road trail the arrow in the sky,
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I search for the mote in my brother's eye
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beneath the pence...
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a time of blunt instruments.
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Still uncertain when I've woken
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or what constitutes a conscious mind,
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though the thought remains unspoken
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I know I'm flying blind.
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Breaking into cold sweat on the white-hot coals
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the pennies from heaven drop through my soul:
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it don't relent.
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At the back end of dreams I'm amazed to awake...
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I offer my theories but just can't shake
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that seventh sense
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to which there's no defense.
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It seemed the time was for action,
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it seemed so cool to be that kind...
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my tongue writhed to form some retraction
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but I knew
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I was flying blind.
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I want things to be fast, down to the power-drive;
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I want the zero-gravity heroes to play dead,
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but stay alive.
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We want it to be slow, all the way to stall;
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we talk about a thousand things that never change at all.
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No, it never change...
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It was then that I knew I'd been thoughtless -
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something had slipped my mind:
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I'd strapped myself into the Fortress
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but the Fortress was flying blind.
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We got full clearance, so someone down there
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ought to know the truth of our disappearance -
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If even that still shows it accuses and blames me,
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but nothing was quite what it seemed.
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Sometimes things work out so strangely
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that it might as well all be dreamed.
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The White Cane Fandango
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The White Cane Fandango in Morse code,
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try to shake through the message,
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shake the load;
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only venial sin, running on the spot -
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till the dance begins.
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Where does a man go when the muscles cramp?
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Try to write out a postcard on a postage stamp
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with a drawing pin punching out the Braille
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for the whole within?
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Upset the contango on your future stock;
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paying backwardation, hold onto what you've got -
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such a sideways grin! Some day you may need
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to trade that in.
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If we ride this right
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the future will fall in our hands.
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If we survive the flight
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the future will work out -
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nothing's that black and white.
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Control
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The colour-coded charts are spread,
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but we're still gliding deep into the red,
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the radio is dead
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every valve blown open.
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The radar screen flicks monochrome,
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air traffic controller wants to get on home,
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waiting
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for a phone call
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to release him from responsibility.
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Nobody goes to see him any more
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except for the man from the ministry.
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He wanted to be, he wanted to be
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the man at the helm, in command of the flightpath;
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he's flying a chair, quite beyond control;
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he's going to have just one more chance
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at a barrel roll.
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All in a dream, all as a dream,
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the colours too bright, the music too deafening -
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the black-out world has just begun to show.
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These cracked-out words I offer...
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but I still don't know.
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Cool blue suffuse the colour gun -
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oh come in, come in number one:
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your time's nearly run.
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Speed-freeze the frame,
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the present and the past hold fast...
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It's too fast, the thing don't,
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the thing won't,
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the thing don't last.
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Cockpit
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The rolling dice clash together never make up the score;
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that old device, the ejector seat, glued to the floor.
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Everybody waits for everyone to make a show -
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no-one wants to be the first, admitting that they know
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how anythings that's gone down here
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could fit into an analytic groove...
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W
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ait for the tactical move,
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wait for some action we all can approve.
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Too much to drink, for the cup reaches down to the sea;
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too much to think, the barometer pressuring me.
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Rolling down the weather for an Easter parade,
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reeling out the Maydays in the hope of being saved,
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but the radio ham's out giving blood -
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no, no, no, he's not listening.
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The cricketer knows his "Wisden",
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the pilot has got his "Jane's",
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but the sum of this factual wisdom
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don't help us to fly the plane
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(no, and it never will...)
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Beneath the tartan two-piece something rips undone...
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Wait for the ladder to run
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wait for the snake that the ladder becomes.
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A passenger hits the cockpit, willing to chance his game:
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pulls out his gun and cocks it
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in the hope that it all might change. (oh, but it never will...)
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A fly-leaf from the library shows others have been here before,
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tried, failed and kicked out the door;
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the aircrew don't care anymore -
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not they just wait
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for the beat of the silk-worm wing,
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wait for the heat to come down on us
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- full force of the law.
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Silk-Worm Wings
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Full force of gravity pulls me down,
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I'll be better off out of there;
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aerobatic spin around,
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I'll take my chances in the open air.
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Sycamore silk-worm wings
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or Roman Candle to the ground,
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there's only one thing for shure:
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when the balloon goes up
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the aeronaut calm down.
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He say nothing is quite what it seems,
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he say nothing is quite what it seems;
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I say nothing is nothing.
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A Black Box
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Softly, the angels sing their time and space refrain:
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there's something in everything if you can only pin down its name
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Aerobatic thoughts at the back of my mind -
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Is it nothing but the looping line we all follow?
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Nothing but the spiral twist of DNA
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There'll be no looking back from tomorrow on today.
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So the wire is tripped, split-seconds defect to their successors;
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the umbilical cord is ripped -
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here we all are in free fall.
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I stall where I am, as if to see where I've been:
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only running down the looping line we all follow,
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only chasing down the spiral twist of DNA -
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There can be no looking on to tomorrow from today.
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Life/death/night/day - cold breath will surely fly away.
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Is the empire of sensation locked in a black box
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deep in me, encoded there somehow?
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It fires the imagination to fly on a wing and a prayer
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through my life
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- is that how it is?
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There'll be no looking back on this...
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this is now, which will be then -
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is this the means? All I know for shure is
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this is the end.
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No looking back from tomorrow,
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no, there'll be no looking back on today;
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better be looking on to tomorrow...
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better think on today.
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All lyrics by Peter Hammill
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Published by Hit and Run Music Publishing Ltd.
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Printed by permission.
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S-type records, 55-59 Shaftsbury Ave., London W.I.
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Calligraphy by Jet
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--
PETER HAMMILL - Shingle Song (lyrics inc...
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