Luyện nghe bài hát Plastic Pattern People

Glad to get high and see the slow world.
Just to reach, and touch, the half floating.
Worlds spinning orbit quicker than Dave Brubeck.
We come now, frantically searching for Thomas Moore, villages.
Up on suddenly, Charlie Mingus and our man Malik,
to add bass, to a pit of insecurity.

You may be plastic because you meditate,
about the bottom of glasses, The third of your universe.

Add on Alice Coltrane and her strains.
Still no on blue black horizons.

Your is tested by a formless assault.
The sun can questions in tune, to all your sacrifices.
But why would our new age give us no more mind expanding puzzles?

John.

Blow under, always, and never, so that the morning, the sun,
may scream of bending saxophones.

The third world arrives, with Lateef, and Pharaoh Saunders.
With straining to touch the core of your unknown soul.
Shankar comes, with strings attached, prepared to stabilize your seventh sense,
Your rhythm.

Up and down a silly ladder run the notes, the words.
Words are important for the mind, but the are for the soul.
Davis, So what?
Cannonball, Fiddler, Mercy.
Dexter Gordon, One Up.
Donald Byrd, Cristo, but what about words?

you like to survive on sadness? Call on Ella and Jose Happiness.
Drift with Smokey, Medley, Bobby Taylor, and Otis Redding.
Soul music frustrations are washed by drums, Nina and Miriam.

Congo, Mongo, me, senseless, bongo, Tonto.
Flash through worlds of STP and LSD.
Speed kills and musics call, is frustrated.
And the man is confused.

Our speed is our life pace, too fast, not good.
I beg you to escape, and live, and all of the real.
a call comes for you to cry elsewhere.
We all cry, but tell me.

Must our tears be