Peter Hammill 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. 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.
