{"id":793,"date":"2013-04-19T03:20:38","date_gmt":"2013-04-19T01:20:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/?page_id=793"},"modified":"2013-05-03T02:12:35","modified_gmt":"2013-05-03T00:12:35","slug":"9-a-black-box","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/teksty\/teksty-oryginalne\/teksty-ph-solo\/9-a-black-box\/","title":{"rendered":"9. A Black Box"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\nGolden Promises<\/strong><\/p>\n

Besieged in the battlements of Babylon,
\nstill looking for a hat-peg you can hang your head upon –
\nnow you’ve found a place you think is Avalon:
\nyou can talk to anyone here.
\nYou can throw your arms around your nearest neighbour
\nand the smiling ones’ll tell you that you’ve saved her,
\nthat she’s saved you….
\nThey offer the golden promises,
\nthe instantly divine;
\nyou swallow the golden promises
\nhook, sinker and line.<\/p>\n

If you choose to throw your soul around the attitude
\nreasoning and independent thought go down the tube
\nas you go slavering after every inane platitude –
\nhow weak you find yourself here.
\nDo you really need to lose yourself completely?
\nHow come you seem to rate it all so cheaply?
\nIt’s so weak-kneed
\nto go for the golden promises,
\nmail-order holy vows;
\nyou go for the golden promises –
\nI think you really ought to know better by now.<\/p>\n

So I do my best and I do my nut,
\nI try to explain all these angles
\nbut you turn away.
\nOh, now you’re looking in the white of my eyes,
\nand you know what I’m going to say:
\ndon’t go for the golden promises,
\ndon’t go for the easy way….
\nIt’s right here on the doorstep:
\nfool’s gold – don’t throw your life away.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nLosing Faith in Words<\/strong><\/p>\n

I just can’t see why you can’t see what I mean,
\nbut I can’t make things any plainer,
\nthe words get in the way –
\nis that quite what I mean?
\nIf not now, then certainly sooner or later
\nwe’ve got a problem with communication –
\nlook, I scrabble with my hands
\nI try to get some head-room from the elevation
\nbut you just don’t understand<\/p>\n

Most of the things we say mean we most of the time
\ntreat our speech with derision,
\nflap our hands in body-telegram – I know that gets through
\nso much better than anything said with precision.
\nWe’ve got a problem with communication
\nand it’s getting quite absurd…
\nwell, I think I’m going to flip out from the sheer frustration,
\nyes, I’m losing faith in words.<\/p>\n

We’ve got a problem with communication,
\nonly getting through in anagrams –
\nI try to get some linkage from articulation,
\nI try to get some head-room from the elevation,
\nI try to pull back something from my education…
\nYes, I try to, try to, try to but I just don’t understand,
\nI try, I just don’t understand,
\nI talk, you just don’t understand.<\/p>\n

Sometimes I don’t know why I bother,
\nbut I’m bothered.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nThe Jargon King<\/strong><\/p>\n

He prescribes the subject
\nhe proscribes outsiders
\nhis terms have a golden ring.
\nHe wants to find some order
\nquantifying chaos
\nin words that all the children sing.
\nHe tabulates the lexicon
\nvocabulary minimised
\nbow down to the Jargon King.<\/p>\n

All questions become so simple
\nif we eat the inane answer
\nif we all agree to ju-ju speak
\nwe fit into the formula
\nwe all without exception
\napprove the rule.<\/p>\n

We don’t understand
\nhe must be clever
\nhe must be clever
\nhe must be right
\nhe must be right
\nwe don’t understand<\/p>\n

Closed the ranks and barricades
\nimposed the secret language
\ncomplexity all catch-phrased
\nword-drugged any anguish
\npigeon-holed allusions
\nshut the vault behind us
\nIt’s an obvious conclusion
\nwe’ll be the chattels of His Highness.<\/p>\n

Bow down to the Jargon King
\nand his minion code-words.<\/p>\n

Here comes the reign<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nFogwalking<\/strong><\/p>\n

Everything clumsy slow-motion,
\nI look for the source.
\nBuildings loom up like icebergs
\non collision course.
\nI don’t want to go in there,
\nI just want to be alone,
\nunpick the stitches of time
\nin London
\nin the no-go zone.<\/p>\n

I’ve been kicking around like a dog,
\nlost myself in the blank mass of fog,
\nit’s some kind of service.
\nAll humanity’s fall-out is there,
\nslumped in doorways
\nand mouthing cold air –
\nI have heard this.<\/p>\n

Fogwalking, fogwalking.<\/p>\n

Since the curfew
\nthe streets are half-dead,
\nall the good folk asleep in their beds,
\nit’s so easy to go off the rails
\nwhen the fog spores
\nare breeding inside by head.<\/p>\n

Fogwalking: there’s a presence that I sense
\nFogwalking: the neck muscles tense
\nFogwalking: it’s right here inside me,
\ntry to find a defense – oh, no.<\/p>\n

Fogwalking through the wreckage,
\nfogwalking through the worm-eaten
\nNight Apple,
\nfogwalking through what used to be
\nWhitechapel.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nThe Spirit<\/strong><\/p>\n

Such distance to the tips of the fingers,
\nthe ganglion loom jerks inside;
\nthe body grows steadily stranger
\nbut the spirit won’t be denied.<\/p>\n

That sharp halogen flash jars the eyeball,
\nthe limbs pump in overdrive;
\nthe body grows seemingly weaker
\nbut the spirit won’t be denied.<\/p>\n

Yeah, the ash-mark stands out on the forehead
\nas the vacuum sneaks up on the eyes;
\nthe body becomes a constant traitor
\nbut the spirit won’t be denied.<\/p>\n

And they call that living a normal life,
\nbut normality’s not standardised.
\nThough the body gets ever more root-bound
\nthe spirit won’t be denied<\/p>\n

Yes, the spirit survives.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nIn Slow Time<\/strong><\/p>\n

Dance the dance
\ntill show time
\nthe show goes on
\nDance the dance
\nin slow time
\nif that’s what you want<\/p>\n

Dance the dance
\nin the back of the car
\nin the cocktail bar
\ntill show time let it ride
\nDance the dance
\nI feel I’ve been here before,
\nthis could be anywhere at all
\nin slow time.<\/p>\n

Danced the dance, or it soon will be;
\ndanced the dance, I’ll be back here with me
\nin no time.<\/p>\n

In no time danced the dance
\nIt’s show time dance the dance
\nin slow time.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nFlight<\/strong><\/p>\n

Flying Blind<\/i><\/p>\n

I always forget how crazy things are
\nso sometimes it catches me off my guard
\nwhen they make sense.
\nThe line on the road trail the arrow in the sky,
\nI search for the mote in my brother’s eye
\nbeneath the pence…
\na time of blunt instruments.
\nStill uncertain when I’ve woken
\nor what constitutes a conscious mind,
\nthough the thought remains unspoken
\nI know I’m flying blind.<\/p>\n

Breaking into cold sweat on the white-hot coals
\nthe pennies from heaven drop through my soul:
\nit don’t relent.
\nAt the back end of dreams I’m amazed to awake…
\nI offer my theories but just can’t shake
\nthat seventh sense
\nto which there’s no defense.
\nIt seemed the time was for action,
\nit seemed so cool to be that kind…
\nmy tongue writhed to form some retraction
\nbut I knew I was flying blind.<\/p>\n

I want things to be fast, down to the power-dive;
\nI want the zero-gravity heroes to play dead,
\nbut stay alive.
\nWe want it to be slow, all the way to stall;
\nwe talk about a thousand things that never change at all.
\nNo, it never change…<\/p>\n

It was then that I knew I’d been thoughtless,
\nsomething had slipped my mind:
\nI’d strapped myself into the Fortress
\nbut the Fortress was flying blind.
\nWe got full clearance,
\nso someone down there ought to know
\nthe truth of our disappearance –
\nIf even that still shows it accuses and blames me,
\nbut nothing was quite what it seemed.
\nSometimes things work out so strangely
\nthat it might as well all be dreamed.<\/p>\n

The White Cane Fandango<\/i><\/p>\n

The White Cane Fandango in Morse code,
\ntry to shake through the message,
\nshake the load;
\nonly venial sin, running on the spot
\ntill the dance begins.<\/p>\n

Where does a man go when the muscles cramp?
\nTry to write out a postcard on a postage stamp
\nwith a drawing pin punching out the Braille
\nfor the whole within?<\/p>\n

Upset the contango on your future stock;
\npaying backwardation, hold onto what you’ve got –
\nsuch a sideways grin!
\nSome day you may need
\nto trade that in.<\/p>\n

If we ride this right
\nthe future will fall in our hands.
\nIf we survive the flight
\nthe future will work out –
\nnothing’s that black and white.<\/p>\n

Control<\/i><\/p>\n

The colour-coded charts are spread,
\nbut we’re still gliding deep into the red,
\nthe radio is dead
\nevery valve blown open.
\nThe radar screen flicks monochrome,
\nair traffic controller wants to get on home,
\nwaiting for a phone call
\nto release him from responsibility.
\nNobody goes to see him any more
\nexcept for the man from the ministry.<\/p>\n

He wanted to be, he wanted to be
\nthe man at the helm, in command of the flightpath;
\nhe’s flying a chair, quite beyond control;
\nhe’s going to have just one more chance
\nat a barrel roll.<\/p>\n

All in a dream, all as a dream,
\nthe colours too bright, the music too deafening –
\nthe black-out world has just begun to show.
\nThese cracked-out words I offer…
\nbut I still don’t know.<\/p>\n

Cool blue suffuse the colour gun –
\noh come in, come in number one:
\nyour time’s nearly run.
\nSpeed-freeze the frame,
\nthe present and the past hold fast….
\nIt’s too fast, the thing don’t,
\nthe thing won’t,
\nthe thing don’t last.<\/p>\n

Cockpit<\/i><\/p>\n

The rolling dice clash together, never make up the score;
\nthat old device, the ejector seat, glued to the floor.
\nEverybody waits for everyone to make a show,
\nno-one wants to be the first, admitting that they know
\nhow anythings that’s gone down here
\ncould fit into an analytic groove.
\nWait for the tactical move,
\nwait for some action we all can approve.<\/p>\n

Too much to drink, for the cup reaches down to the sea;
\ntoo much to think, the barometer pressuring me.
\nRolling down the weather for an Easter parade,
\nreeling out the Maydays in the hope of being saved,
\nbut the radio ham’s out giving blood –
\nno, no, he’s not listening.
\nThe cricketer knows his „Wisden”,
\nthe pilot has got his „Jane’s”,
\nbut the sum of this factual wisdom
\ndon’t help us to fly the plane
\n(no, and it never will…)
\nBeneath the tartan two-piece something rips undone…
\nWait for the ladder to run
\nwait for the snake that the ladder becomes.<\/p>\n

A passenger hits the cockpit, willing to chance his game:
\npulls out his gun and cocks it
\nin the hope that it all might change.
\n(Oh, but it never will…)
\nA fly-leaf from the library shows others have been here before,
\ntried, failed and kicked out the door;
\nthe aircrew don’t care anymore.
\nNow they just wait
\nfor the beat of the silk-worm wing,
\nwait for the heat to come down on us
\nfull force of the law.<\/p>\n

Silk-Worm Wings<\/i><\/p>\n

Full force of gravity pulls me down,
\nI’ll be better off out of there;
\naerobatic spin around,
\nI’ll take my chances in the open air.<\/p>\n

Sycamore silk-worm wings
\nor Roman Candle to the ground,
\nthere’s only one thing for sure:
\nwhen the balloon goes up
\nthe aeronaut calm down.<\/p>\n

Nothing is Nothing<\/i><\/p>\n

He say nothing is quite what it seems,
\nhe say nothing is quite what it seems;
\nI say nothing is nothing.<\/p>\n

A Black Box<\/i><\/p>\n

Softly, the angels sing their time and space refrain:
\nthere’s something in everything if you can only pin down its name
\nAerobatic thoughts at the back of my mind –
\nIs it nothing but the looping line we all follow?
\nNothing but the spiral twist of DNA?
\nThere’ll be no looking back from tomorrow on today.<\/p>\n

So the wire is tripped, split-seconds defect to their successors;
\nthe umbilical cord is ripped –
\nhere we all are in free fall.
\nI stall where I am, as if to see where I’ve been,
\nonly running down the looping line we all follow,
\nonly chasing down the spiral twist of DNA.
\nThere can be no looking on to tomorrow from today.<\/p>\n

Life\/death\/night\/day…
\ncold breath will surely fly away.
\nIs the empire of sensation locked in a black box
\ndeep in me, encoded there somehow?
\nIt fires the imagination to fly on a wing and a prayer
\nthrough my life. Is that how it is?
\n(There’ll be no looking back on this….)
\nThis is now, which will be then?
\nIs this the means?
\nAll I know for shure is
\nthis is the end.<\/p>\n

No looking back from tomorrow,
\nno, there’ll be no looking back on today;
\nbetter be looking on to tomorrow…
\nbetter think on today.<\/p>\n

\"Przewi\u0144<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Golden Promises Besieged in the battlements of Babylon, still looking for a hat-peg you can hang your head upon – now you’ve found a place you think is Avalon: you can talk to anyone here. You can throw your arms … Czytaj dalej →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":659,"parent":519,"menu_order":9,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"sidebar-page.php","meta":{"_sitemap_exclude":false,"_sitemap_priority":"","_sitemap_frequency":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-793","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/793","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=793"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/793\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":795,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/793\/revisions\/795"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/519"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/659"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=793"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}