Idiot Wind

Sometimes the clock stops ticking
when the seconds plod on.
Sometimes the girls all make excuses
for doing me wrong.
Sometimes the time keeps moving
when there's no time to run,
Sometimes I run right out of excuses
and right out of sun.
Sometimes the clock stops ticking,
And sometimes the seconds plod on,
Put either way, the idiot wind on that clock winds me up
like a forced line at the end of a pretentious idea.

Idiot Wind

Your face was fashioned in a daydream,
And yet you looked at me,
And though our separation,
it pierced me to the heart,
It's not as though I moved to Tunisia.
Your face was fashioned in Morocco,
And yet the rip-off rules,
I saw you dancing with that guy,
I might go home,
and listen to Idiot Wind.

Friendly Advice

Just a kind word to our loyal readers, I'm sure you are all enjoying the fine work contained in this blog of ours and we would thank you for spending your precious time here at Tumbleweed, if there is anything you like to say to myself or Mr Spiral don't be scared to use the comments section located under any of the entries you see. It's fun, liberating and best of all, it's free of debilitating computer viruses. So we'll be seeing you soon dear readers..........
Oh wait, I've just been informed we have no readers.

And then...

I cut myself today, not in a self harming, self destructive kind of way.
Not In an accidental, careless knife slipping moment of absence of thought.
Neither was it in the cause of medical aid, the removal of a thorn or splinter or spade.
No, I cut myself not because I was bored, but because a life such as this needs to be explored.
I could go no deeper, with passport or thought, so I took up a blade and started to cut.
Flesh gives way easy, and blood washes off, the things I have learned with my skin ripped like cloth.
The sinew and vein all glisten in the light as the pain burrows into my head I dig in the knife.
My body resists this transformation, its fights it's future. But the new flesh is bubbling under this butcher.
How much waste the human lives with, auto-anthropophagy, I eat where I live.
I can hear you muttering "This one's insane!"
But with my own cosmetic surgery, I'm perfect again.

Who's For Weeping?

Who's for weeping?
Not the ones who shout so loud
they flood the point they were making
with worthless noise,
that's for sure.
Nor the timebombs
loaded with testosterone
that go off in bars
and come back later,
looking for more.
So, who's for weeping?
Not the clowns who lose their smiles
when the joke's on them,
that's for sure.
Nor the ones with bruises
on the back of their hands
who drink to forget the faces
their hands betrayed.
Now, who's for weeping?
Not those who have the hearts
they just wouldn't nurture
that's for sure.
So, who's for weeping?
Them – soon enough – for my failures,
And me, for their
grieving mothers.

Hand Holding

See these gloves that held my hand
on horses, through bluebells,
frozen in the dawn light,
When the sun crept through,
and the mist lifted enough,
To dance above the dew.

Hear those grunts coming from those horses?
hooves treading, hand-holding,
Scarves in the forest,
When the sun led us,
And the mist lifted enough,
To rest around the dew.

See the hand that holds these bluebells?
on horses, with red gloves,
frozen in the memory,
As the sun creeps through,
And I throw them in,
Before the hole gets covered up.

Comment (no: 2)

A man is an island,
The world is a page,
The galaxy's a chapter,
And the rest's a book,
With the worlds torn out.

Fifties Dream Sequence

I'd hit the rocks,
I was drinking Scotch and ice,
But you looked nice, lipstick and curls
as those rouge curtains drew back,
Dressed in red to the nines
And the strings struck up,
And your hair all bunched with a pin,
And my mind wandering.
The man with the flute of fizz took a dance,
To the soft sounds of romance,
Violins accompanied the waltz,
And clarinets carried me off,
I'd hit the rocks,
I was drinking pianos and ice,
But you seemed nice, eyeshadow girl
All pink powders and smiles,
Cracked black and white to the dimes.
And the stage struck up,
And the woodwind brash and breezing by,
And your last smile goodbye,
The man with the flute of fizz took a chance,
To the wrecked sounds of romance,
Violins accompanied my sighs,
Cassinova carried you off.

Disappearing Into Words

The more words I write, the more consumed I become by words,
Like when the morning disappears with the tick of a clock,
And you're breaking down and wishing for the time to take away everything.
And this isn't very good, I know that much, written with the gun of ink,
And bullets made from drink.
The more words I write, the more consumed I become by words,
It's almost as if we all disappeared into them.
Into them, into them, into them.
It's almost as if we all disappeared into them.
I said, "it's almost as though we all disappeared into them."
No point smiling now. Although we did, when the words consumed us,
And no-one new even knew, it's like they were invisible,
And writing just to fill the gaps, and fill the time,
In the hope they'd be consumed.
The fewer words I write, the more invisible I seem,
It's worth remembering its worth...

Shopping and Denial

Push that trolley round Tescos,
And I'll listen to the strings of that symphony
written centuries ago
You live in the now, I wouldn't even care.
Pick up the fruit from the stand,
I'll pick up denials from the chord change,
And sell them from my fruitstall.

You Didn't Go Away

I didn't go away,
Walking through the rivers
Fighting off the fog,
Rolling in with hangovers,
Feeling lost.

I didn't go away,
Sleeping through the rainstorms
Soaking through the walls,
Tumbling in the tumblers
Filled with gin.

You didn't go away,
Pushing out the pushboat,
Pulling in the corpse,
Beating back the heartache
With the pills.

Soap Opera Sunday Breakdown

I spent the day shopping for news,
And Mad Gossip Brenda unloaded her blues,
And she said: "Angry Arthur flew into a rage in the Dog and Ditch,
Over the half measures given by the waitress - he reckons she's a witch."
Brenda spent her days infatuated by Arthur,
Nursing her stout, Arthur reminded her of her father,
But he was too busy engaged in arguments
To care to notice lonely eyes,
See, Arthur only drinks to escape the trouble and strife,
But the drink only finds him to upset his long-suffering wife,
And the woman staring from the side hardly helps,
With eyes torn between his glass and the girl behind the bar,
The girl said, "leave off, Arthur - you've had enough".
So Arthur's drink chose a few choice words for him,
Which he said, as he slinked off, winking.
Now, Pretty Penny's a popular girl with the punters,
But she's bored of the lonely men looking at her,
And she couldn't care less about the Dog and Ditch,
Or the punters choosing their poison of choice in there,
But it pays the rent, till she knocks off and Bill gets in.
And then her bad day begins...
See, Bad Bill's the villain of this messed-up town,
And he spends his days pushing drugs to the desperate,
And his nights pushing Penny around.

And Angry Arthur shouts at his long-suffering wife,
In the room above my ceiling.
And Mad Gossip Brenda listens by the wall to the left,
Longing that this time she leaves him,
And Bad Bill beats up Pretty Penny beneath my bed,
Just in time for her to hide the bruises he put on her head,
Then the dealer comes round, and gets Bill his fix.

I spent the day shopping for news,
And the night pretending I didn't exist.