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She's a dancer I'd never refuse,
She's a lover I'd always lose,
She's the romance I made up...

When I slip my key in her latch,
She feels as natural as thinking,
And allows me to feel the cracks
Unique to her.
So why am I sinking?

We're stepping back, forever.
After tonight.
Her window's all dripping
with rain and roses,
And sunsets and longings.
And sunsets and longings.

The Wrong Thing Said

You must know the time, remember the time, where all you wanted lay in front of you, like a red carpet to the premiere of your greatest dreams, cast solid in realities of gold. The world could be yours, shrink wrapped to fit in outspread arms, a moment when every decision was the right one, where every step was a forward motion to the gates that forever locked you out. A time not of thunder and rain but of ever-lasting brilliant sunlight, that instant where every note was meant to be, I know you must remember.......
Oh, wait you're reading Tumbleweed Memories....... I guess you don't then.

Wings of an Angel

Aircraft fly over, so high, so high.
Neck cranes, looking for planes.
I wonder, what life flies yonder.
What dreams, what fears, what happens over the horizon.
Rooted like Oak to the ground, where MY dreams once did seed.
I know now why
People who fly.
Will always look down on me.

Kent

I wait and I listen in the shadow of my failings.
I try to be everything I think Is everything I would want in this spherical cage.
I don't mind disappointment, ignorance and inconsideration
I live with the anguish of seeing the bright side forever cast down into the apathy of everyday.
I believe in a day, a moment, a heartbeat.
I dream that one day all that is written will mean all it can be, will be all that it should, will be something more than one thing to me.
I demand nothing from everyone, not to avoid disappointment, but to bask in the surprise that even smiles can bring.
I used to think that it would all be okay, that I could accept being shoved in the corner, down turned expression and shambling dignity.
I will take it all, turn it around, put a spin on the mistreatment, make it my fault, never blame another.
My life of folly, worth naught at the counter.
Because I do not know where Kent is.
.....And apparently that's all that matters.

Woodmansterne Road

Sometimes I walk up Woodmansterne Road,
And feel familiar things as they moved
Like the 154 going by,
Or the taxi driver on the fly.
Sometimes I walk up Woodmansterne Road
And watch my past go by.

Sometimes I walk down Woodmansterne Road,
And see the shops as they used to look
Before I moved away.
Old and torn and yesterday
Sometimes I walk down Woodmansterne Road
And watch life fly away.

Sometimes I ride up Woodmansterne Road,
On the top deck, at the front of the 154,
With eyes of ages,
Old and torn and none-so-clear.
Sometimes I walk up Woodmansterne Road
And long for yesteryear.

We Burn Animals

See the fire-damaged stock
In the blazing shop,
That the flames have got.
See the burned out parking lot.

See the angry trees,
Tossing memories in leaves
With the radio stuck,
In the "Break-Up Slot".

See me turning in for no-one.
Damaged by the scene,
While we burn animals
In my dreams.

Endweek

Wake up wash my Facebook
Breakfast with Bebo
Mid Morning over at Myspace
Lunch with a digital fix of youtube
Lazy afternoon online bets and offline limbs
Teatime tweets to terrify the land of twitter
Night falls, the table calls, online poker till the Sandman hauls yet another faceless zombie to the land where gigabytes sleep.
I used to imagine a land of unlimited freedom, now it's in the palm of my hand in the prison of my bedroom.
When I think of outside I no longer wonder, whether it's raining or sunny, I know no longer.
But I've heard all the arguments, the horror of technology, but everyone's doing it, so why not me?

Fake Flowers

What can be done on this blank canvas?
A splash of paint on the windowsill
A fake flower in a vase,
needing water,
Pressing keys and making words come out in a line a little too long?
What can be done?

What can be done, boy, to this world?
They'll never get my dreams.

Malice In Heligoland

I'm a situation thinker
In a moon of mediocritism
I'm a beautiful lie,
who fly tips prose
On the roofs of clothes
And shoe disposal units
Hidden in cyberspace.
I paint my pinkers
In black fog and blinkers
Hoping trucks carrying
Gold for bucks roaring past
Have taken their snarl
And left my rabbits in
Stereo miles intact.
I'm a habitual drinker in malice
in Heligoland
Six hundred and thirty miles from Paris,
Or thereabouts.
I generate gushes like
fake plants generate
Genuine rushes,
I'm afraid of what happens
When the good stuff happens.
I'm a bunny hole spoiler
Dancing the wrong way
Round the whirpool in a recoiler.
I'm a twinkle-toed trip,
Spinning away from malice,
In Heligoland.

Through The Man-Whole

In perfect agony, blissfully unaware of cerulean ceiling.
Clammy walls, endless below, rungs to freedom out of touch with feeling.
Sweetness stolen from a thousand blank footsteps, ever moving over but never moving on, temporary associations and beautiful moments forgotten in the change of direction .
The thud of heartbreaks amidst the sweaty landscape, the torrents of effluent raging across the crevices of broken dreams,
what once was essential,
what once was attainable,
what once was eternal.
Lost here in the dark, fodder for dark dwelling creatures who know nothing of the uncomfortable truths of the above.
The secrets I will never tell stay below with me now, where only the brave or the demented look, where only the nightmares breath.

Never Look Into The Abyss

Yes, all the tabloid rumours are indeed true: Daniel Stairmaster has returned. It has been a long time since I officially graced the darkened walls of Tumbleweed Manor, much has changed, yet bizarrely, much has remained the same. The Zpiral is still hard at work and after a momentous effort on my part the infection known as Chainz has been ousted.

I must apologise for Chainz, much of his chicanery is my fault, I was unaware of the devilish beings that dwelt in his colon. I wish now that I could eliminate him entirely, but it is not for me to end the life of so pitiable a creature. If you wish to see what has become of him you will find him spouting his hate here... http://severalnutsinahailstorm.blogspot.com/

I am sure you are all feverish in anticipation for a story, a tale, a monologue describing in bone shuddering detail the twists and turns that bought about my absence from this blog... Alas, I am in no fit state to resurrect such dark memories just yet, be paitient true believers, all will unveil itself when the time is right.

Well, things must move forward, so as Gary Gilmore said "Let's Do It"

Red Eyes Of Me

Grey fog's tumbling down
All over the red letters
Of Blueluck Street,
And it makes the
Broken branches weep,
When troubadours
Pour final bourbons
In Black Horse bar,
Poring over regrets
They've trodden
A trillion times before
Right as they fall asleep,
Where their memories go
Through the shutters
Of the cellars
That the coal was kept in,
In a land that love forgot,
Out to the side street,
Freezing.

Blue fog's falling
In the red eyes of me,
And sometimes I can't breathe.

Cash For Gold

Here's a pound of cash
Without telephone lines.
We stand in the road,
And the cars we have to dodge,
Contain drivers
With Sat-Navs off.
And whose ancestors exist
Only on memory sticks.

Cry

Trees grow before
her weary eyes,
And leaves flutter
From tears
Growing dying
In the brown.
I smile,
Then cry,
And cry.
She cries.

Beautiful Fog

We're sailing onwards,
past the bend,
And hoping we find them,
in the fog,
And in the end.
I need to hear their cries,
As I look behind myself tentatively,
But these oars roar on, relentlessly.
He is a precious stone,
I denied gifts for,
And she a diamond,
I'd relinquish my life for.
We're sailing on, to a future,
So shout,
and scream,
You did no wrong,
Let me remember this mist
As a beautiful fog
We're sailing forth,
Past the bend.
God, let me remember this fog,
As a beautiful friend.

J.

So I'm sat here writing a country song,
Sitting on my blue bird yawn
And cannons in the halls
rain down in breaches
of people telling me
To go left at the junction.

Ghosts of people
Who I neither like nor need to regret,
Kill me with bullets made of paper and
People to whom I owe a debt.
Next verse,

Fading, like a fading.
Weddings like makeup
Worn by clowns in breeches.
Everyone's witches
Hollering me.

Lying in the beating of an alarm clock,
We never look beyond repetition,
Second hands leap to reach the
minute they'll seduce when they pass.
In contrition.

She's a steady hand in a bad news candle
That always paints you as a vandal.
You're a spray-paint memory,
On a viaduct.

Heading to covers in a cover,
Being original,
The ladies gave light to nothing
Flying to and flying fro,
Spending time
Sinking her life,
Into my bones.

Deaf night gives way to daylight,
Like drainpipes draining
And letting goof spaces.

It's always coal on Bankside that sells.
I can't make my mind blacken
in the shrubery.

You're my moment,
My chance to survive the future
That stands before me,
To dodge the seconds,
Like mortality dodges me.
I'm alive, and billions of people are not -
People I could have fallen for,
Or laughed with.
Or lovers she forgot.

I'm sat here writing a country song,
Sitting on my blue bird yawn
And cannons in the halls
rain down in breaches
of people telling me
To go left at the junction.

You're a dancer that can't leave till I'm ready.
Stay there, I own you - you can't disappear,
You only get to

ump two lines and lose your first letter when I choose,
I choose that you make it below.

J.