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Faint-heart & the Sermon

Artist:Peter Hammill  Album:In Camera 

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With my face drained of colour and my brain of blood, like Billy Budd I'm lashed to the grating. With senses growing duller and with quaking heart I make a start at temperature equating and my lungs suck useless air. Like paraplegic dancers in formation team my understanding seems hidebound in its movements, contemplating answers that could break my bonds - to be half wrong would be, in me, improvement... but my comprehensive faculties are impaired. And it seems absurd, but now all I've heard fades in empty words and is worthless as the Human Laugh rocks the cenotaph but the joke is half-true, and mirthless. Trying to trace a reason from the spinning words but all I've heard seem at odds with their meanings, phonetically pleasing but delivered in such haste that in their place my mind commences screaming. On the verge of belief I crash onto the reef and a cynical thief steals my senses. So I cling to the pew with dimensions askew, and recognition refuses present tenses. All the lives of the saints demonstrate that my faint is a minor complaint, but the end is nowhere in sight. Why can't I find me a way to go? I don't want to die in the nave, but I know it may be with me some day

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