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Peter Hammill
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The Cut
Everything out of order*
Everything too well produced
From the conjuror's hat -
Let's turn on the juice
To grind the cutting plane, the blade that gives an edge,
To scale the mountain; to fail upon the mountain ledge.
Half-way up is half-way peaking,
The stroboscope locks the lathe;
I look around for a switch in phase...
The disco boom stands firm, the eight-track's in, the rage
Licks the present, quickly flips the future page.
Check the deck: no marked cards,
No sequentialled straight or flush...
The dice won't still the blood-line rush.
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Run the star-flood night, the cut-throat blade is stropped;
Race your shadow... race in case your shadow stops.
Everything so out of order
No bias on the playback head;
Papers for the border -
All the tape is read,
The future burns my tongue, the noise-gates all are shut,
Breathe the vacuum, believe there's reason in the cut.
Incipient white noise,
The stylus barely tracks,
The air controllers feed the stereo sonic smack.
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