Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

i) Blind

I forget how crazy things are
so sometimes it me off my guard
when make sense.
The line on the road trail the in the sky,
I search for the mote in my eye
the pence...
a time of instruments.
Still uncertain when woken
or what a conscious mind,
though the remains unspoken
I know I'm blind.

Breaking into cold sweat on the coals
the pennies from drop through my soul:
it relent.
At the back end of dreams I'm to awake...
I offer my theories but can't shake
that sense
to there's no defense.
It seemed the was for action,
it so cool to be that kind...
my writhed to form some retraction
but I I was flying blind.

I want to be fast, down to the power-dive;
I want the zero-gravity heroes to dead,
but alive.
We it to be slow, all the way to stall;
we about a thousand things that never change at all.
No, it change...

It was then I knew I'd been thoughtless,
something had slipped my
I'd strapped myself into the
but the was flying blind.
We got clearance,
so down there ought to know
the truth of our -
If even that still shows it and blames me,
but nothing was quite it seemed.
Sometimes things work out so
that it as well all be dreamed.

ii) The White Fandango

The White Fandango in Morse code,
try to through the message,
shake the
only venial sin, on the spot
the dance begins.

Where does a man go when the cramp?
Try to write out a postcard on a postage
a drawing pin punching out the Braille
for the within?

the contango on your future stock;
paying backwardation, hold onto you've got -
a sideways grin!
Some day you may
to trade in.

If we this right
the future fall in our hands.
If we survive the
the future will out -
nothing's black and white.

iii)

The charts are spread,
but we're still deep into the red,
the radio is
valve blown open.
The screen flicks monochrome,
air traffic wants to get on home,
for a phone call
to him from responsibility.
Nobody goes to see him any
for the man from the ministry.

He wanted to be, he to be
the man at the helm, in command of the
he's flying a chair, quite beyond
he's to have just one more chance
at a roll.

All in a dream, all as a dream,
the colours too bright, the too deafening -
the world has just begun to show.
cracked-out words I offer...
but I still know.

Cool suffuse the colour gun -
oh come in, come in one:
your time's run.
the frame,
the and the past hold fast...
It's too fast, the don't,
the won't,
the thing last.

iv)

The rolling dice clash together, 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 that's gone here
could fit into an groove.
for the tactical move,
wait for some we all can approve.

Too much to drink, for the cup down to the sea;
too to think, the barometer pressuring me.
Rolling the weather for an Easter parade,
reeling out the in the hope of being saved,
but the radio out giving blood -
no, no, not listening.
The cricketer his "Wisden",
the has got his "Jane's",
but the sum of this wisdom
help us to fly the plane
(no, and it will...)
the tartan two-piece something rips undone...
Wait for the to run
wait for the that the ladder becomes.

A passenger hits the cockpit, willing to chance his
out his gun and cocks it
in the hope that it all change.
(Oh, but it will...)
A fly-leaf from the library shows others been here before,
tried, failed and kicked out the
the aircrew care anymore.
Now they wait
for the beat of the wing,
wait for the heat to down on us
force of the law.

v) Silk-Worm

Full force of gravity me down,
I'll be better off out of
spin around,
I'll my chances in the open air.

Sycamore silk-worm
or Candle to the ground,
only one thing for sure:
when the goes up
the calm down.

vi) Nothing is

He say nothing is what it seems,
he say nothing is quite it seems;
I say is nothing.

vii) A Box

Softly, the angels sing their time and refrain:
there's something in everything if you can only pin its name
Aerobatic at the back of my mind -
Is it nothing but the line we all follow?
Nothing but the spiral twist of
There'll be no looking back from on today.

So the wire is tripped, split-seconds to their successors;
the umbilical cord is -
here we all are in fall.
I stall where I am, as if to see where been,
only running the looping line we all follow,
only down the spiral twist of DNA.
There can be no looking on to tomorrow today.

Life/death/night/day...
breath will surely fly away.
Is the of sensation locked in a black box
deep in me, there somehow?
It fires the imagination to fly on a wing and a
through my life. Is how it is?
(There'll be no looking on this...)
This is now, which be then?
Is the means?
All I for shure is
is the end.

No looking back tomorrow,
no, there'll be no looking back on
better be on to tomorrow...
think on today.