Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

Flying
I alway forget how things are
so it catches me off my guard
when they sense.
The line on the road trail the in the sky,
I search for the mote in my eye
the pence...
a of blunt instruments.
Still uncertain when I've
or what constitutes a mind,
though the thought unspoken
I I'm flying blind.
Breaking into cold on the white-hot coals
the pennies heaven drop through my soul:
it relent.
At the back end of I'm amazed to awake...
I offer my theories but just can't
that seventh
to there's no defense.
It seemed the was for action,
it seemed so to be that kind...
my writhed to form some retraction
but I
I was blind.
I things to be fast, down to the power-drive;
I want the zero-gravity to play dead,
but alive.
We want it to be slow, all the way to
we talk about a thousand things never change at all.
No, it change...
It was that I knew I'd been thoughtless -
something had my mind:
I'd myself into the Fortress
but the Fortress was blind.
We got full clearance, so down there
ought to know the truth of our -
If that still shows it accuses and blames me,
but was quite what it seemed.
Sometimes work out so strangely
it might as well all be dreamed.
The White Cane
The Cane Fandango in Morse code,
try to shake the message,
shake the
only venial sin, on the spot -
till the begins.
Where a man go when the muscles cramp?
Try to write out a postcard on a stamp
with a drawing pin punching out the
for the within?
the contango on your future stock;
paying backwardation, hold what you've got -
such a sideways grin! day you may need
to trade in.
If we ride right
the will fall in our hands.
If we the flight
the future will out -
that black and white.

The colour-coded are spread,
but we're gliding deep into the red,
the radio is
valve blown open.
The screen flicks monochrome,
air traffic controller to get on home,

for a phone
to release him responsibility.
Nobody to see him any more
for the man from the ministry.
He to be, he wanted to be
the man at the helm, in of the flightpath;
he's flying a chair, beyond control;
he's going to have just one more
at a roll.
All in a dream, all as a dream,
the too bright, the music too deafening -
the black-out has just begun to show.
These words I offer...
but I don't know.
blue suffuse the colour gun -
oh come in, come in number
time's nearly run.
the frame,
the and the past hold fast...
too fast, the thing don't,
the won't,
the thing last.

The dice clash together never make up the score;
old device, the ejector seat, glued to the floor.
Everybody for everyone to make a show -
no-one wants to be the first, admitting that know
how anythings gone down here
could fit an analytic groove...
W
ait for the move,
wait for some we all can approve.
Too to drink, for the cup reaches down to the sea;
too much to think, the pressuring me.
Rolling down the weather for an parade,
reeling out the Maydays in the hope of saved,
but the radio ham's out giving -
no, no, no, not listening.
The cricketer his "Wisden",
the has got his "Jane's",
but the sum of this wisdom
don't us to fly the plane
(no, and it will...)
the tartan two-piece something rips undone...
Wait for the to run
wait for the snake that the becomes.
A passenger hits the cockpit, willing to his game:
pulls out his gun and it
in the that it all might change. (oh, but it never will...)
A fly-leaf from the library others have been here before,
tried, and kicked out the door;
the don't care anymore -
not they wait
for the beat of the wing,
wait for the heat to come on us
- full of the law.
Wings
Full force of gravity me down,
I'll be off out of there;
spin around,
I'll my chances in the open air.
Sycamore wings
or Candle to the ground,
there's only one thing for
when the balloon up
the aeronaut down.
He say nothing is what it seems,
he say nothing is quite what it
I say is nothing.
A Box
Softly, the angels sing time and space refrain:
there's something in everything if you can only pin down its
Aerobatic at the back of my mind -
Is it nothing but the line we all follow?
Nothing but the spiral of DNA
There'll be no looking back tomorrow on today.
So the wire is tripped, split-seconds defect to successors;
the umbilical cord is -
here we all are in fall.
I stall I am, as if to see where I've been:
only running the looping line we all follow,
only chasing the spiral twist of DNA -
There can be no on to tomorrow from today.
Life/death/night/day - breath will surely fly away.
Is the empire of sensation in a black box
deep in me, encoded there
It fires the imagination to fly on a wing and a
through my
- is how it is?
be no looking back on this...
this is now, will be then -
is this the All I know for shure is
is the end.
No looking back tomorrow,
no, there'll be no back on today;
better be on to tomorrow...
better on today.
All by Peter Hammill
by Hit and Run Music Publishing Ltd.
by permission.
S-type records, Shaftsbury Ave., London W.I.
by Jet
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