Hello Isn't Bad

Normalmente yo no diría nada a nadie en el mundo para hacer cualquier cosa, pero hoy rompo esa ley: ¡Tú! Salir ahora y comprar Crazy Tiempo payaso por David Lynch

The Tumbleweed Memories Alphabet Of The Alternative Part 11

Knightriders
With good reason, most talk of George Romero focuses on his Living Dead movies, I've no complaint with that, they are all fine movies (particularly Day, which I think is an underrated masterpiece of gore and social commentary) however a special place in my heart will always go to Knightriders, a movie about a jousting motorbike troupe, but much more than that it is a movie about the ideals of Arthurian mythology, the choice of honour over wealth, and a thinly veiled autobiography of George and his place in the Hollywood system. Choosing to live outside of the mainstream George always had total control over his projects, from final cut, to casting choices, to the message he wanted to put across. Likewise, Ed Harris, playing the King Arthur like leader of the troupe, chooses to live this life, not for the glamour and gasoline but for the chance to make a difference, to be able to live his own life, not just be what society expects. His rag tag group of followers, also wish to live this existence, but some are drawn by the promise of top billing and wealth(A nice villainous turn here by make up legend Tom Savini), they venture of to larger shows with better bikes, fancier weapons, where they are the stars, eventually they learn what George knows, that that life offers nothing but hollow rewards, but destiny takes us to many strange places. Unloved by fans of Romero's Zombie movies expecting more entrails and misunderstood by most others as a weird aberration on his resume, Knightriders suffers if anything from it's long run time, but this is a minor quibble, a large cast of mainly Romero regulars make this feel a family affair, and a wonderfully medieval score by Donald Rubenstein is the icing on the cake.

Means

To an end
To the end
From the beginning
The middle
The medium
By the pyschic
Without a sidekick
Travelling by sidecar
Exiting the front door
Mowing a front lawn
Picnics on the grass
Food shops aren't a blast
Always

I Won't Tell

If you tried to serve me whisky in glasses meant for halves
I wouldn't tell a single malt
I would not tell a dram

If I was telling anyone just what had happened then
It would be just my empty glass and what had been in him

If I was making any sense in this conversation meant for one
I would not have touched that whisky glass that was not meant to be

We Used To Play For Hours

In fields and streets so empty
We played all summer long
Back when summer lasted for ages
And evenings went on and on

The games we played they never ended
For days they never grew tired
Meal times were merely a moment
To replenish energy that might of expired

Now the fields are all made of houses
Oh the summer seems barely a week
And the friends who played games that never ended
Are the ones that I miss and I seek.

Kazoo?

You, to me
Are like
A most amazing instrument
An
Instrument capable of making
Me fly with angels
Soar with the Phoenix
cry like a baby

You are not a Kazoo.

The Tumbleweed Memories Alphabet Of The Alternative Part 10

Justine

Tracking the career of Spanish "auteur" Jesus Franco is like trying to walk home drunk, you end up all over the place, multiple countries, varied versions containing more or less violence and nudity, numerous pseudonyms, a dizzying array of titles across numerous genres, they all however have one thing in common: They all conform to no particular style, they all refuse to do what you think they should do. As a artist/hack Franco's work falls into two categories, if he likes the project, they are spiralling descents into delirium, recognisable by the roving camerawork akin to a peeping tom seeing into a forbidden arena, however if Jess aint fussed they are dull, dull, dull, directed with all the verve of a Saga holiday.
Justine: adapted freely from the piece by the Marquis De Sade is a surprisingly lush experience with a quite beautiful Bruno Nicolai score, that offsets the true degradation of the story of young Justine whose attempts to live a righteous life are punished at every turn, whilst her sister who embraces vice, flourishes and succeeds at everything she tries. Franco tones down his usual jazz improv like style to deliver a very nice looking period feel and even more surprisingly given his long standing love for naked flesh and shocking violence reigns in most of the truly salacious elements of the tale. Amongst an international cast mention must be made of Jack Palance, a good film becomes a magnificent one upon his arrival in the story, off in a world of his own, under the control of beings from space, Palance goes to town delivering a performance that is the closest I have ever seen to the personification of a Franco film, his demented readings and motions are a wonder to behold. Whilst it is true that over the years Franco descended into nudie tripe and tired rehashes of his own work, for this piece (alongside Eugenie, Awful Dr. Orloff and Love Letters of A Portageuse Nun) he deserves much more recognition than he gets.
So there.

Company Photo

I'm the one on the right
Smiling without
giving a shit.
Take this 5 years earlier
I'd have cared - I don't care now.
Watch me as I smile
Giving right-side glances
To someone.

Where Is My Blue?

We are leaves of no-one
Speeding through fields
With swimming pool skies.
I'll wait, not for redemption
You should be ashamed.
Where is my blue?

Shutters

Shutters shut-
eyes closing.
Hearing music
And rioting.
People move
in shapes
We don't
understand,
And the wind
moves
In ways
That leave us
Forever. And
Just because
A person
Gets hopeless
Doesn't
Mean a hand
Behind the back
Is not seen.
So, pull your
Shutters down
And dream.

O Mundo En Tumbleweed

Continuando co tema da linguaxe e do mundo de Memorias Tumbleweed i facer unha pregunta: Onde foron os cowboys foi?

Fans

It's nice to be liked
It's better than being moon
It's superior to being loathed
It's like quietly being moved

Liels paldies mūsu faniem, kas Latvija

On Her Way Home

Yesterday, she saw bluebells
And they made her feel nice
She picked two or three
Put them in a vase
Pulled her curtains back
Then fell into dreams.
She woke on her way home.

Snow Beams

Struck by snow beams
I'm snow stuck and lifted
No one has a lift by which
I may fall down.
I'll bet I'm found preserved
In heartbreak
Buried in winter
Spring will really come
One day, but not tomorrow.

It Has Gone

Bleary eyed and blaming
Corporations, shaking fists
At CCTV screens
Screaming silent obsenities.
Black and white sound
Playing in the back,
The noise
as the noise comes down
Stick the key in the door
Switch the TV on
Watch hour after hour
Of blue-backdropped singers
Sing songs for themselves.
Turn the TV off and weep.

Christmas Bliss

It's not yet December, it's not yet time.
To wheel out the tree, or remember the second line
Of addresses of people you write to once a year
Wishing them well for this season of mockery and fake cheer.

We're not rid of November but everywhere you see
Faceless corporations are selling it with Glee
Or Twilight, or Star Wars or whatever makes cash
Making your perfect Christmas before hiding the stash.

Christmas parties are sorted, T.V plannings a rule
But the advent calendars aren't even opened, it November you fool
I don't hate the this time of year, or the days of Noel
Just stop ramming it down my throat, that means you as well.

Tumbleweed Memories Perfect World

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Branches

Despite connecting cliches
Because of blood sucking leeches
I will never look upon branches
Without thinking of you.

You ripped my roots whilst standing
My leaves were all gone, so demanding
I was left with nothing on my branches
Because of the bitch that was you.

When it came that summer passed into winter
And my soul was scarred by those spilnters
My like was like frozen branches
Empty with a hole left by you


...And you knew.

There Isn't All The Time

I used to ponder, with a mind that never wandered
How my time on this plane could be squeezed into a frame
Now I'm older and no bolder and wishing i could be told
That what I know right now would help me anyway

So I sit, stand, lie down, jump up
Thinking that whatever I am knowing is really nothing but thoughts
Knowing that thinking I am doing will never be enough
When a life like this can easily be cut short.

Now I wander with a mind that never really ponders
Why I'm here and why I still roll on
Because at the end of days all these words and these phrases
Will mean nothing and then it is done.

Always Looking

Asleep eyes open
Awake spying sounds
Stood forward peering behind me
Looking back with a glimpse of the next

Run

One foot in front of another
We hate each other
Marching in time
One foot in front of another
Step on my dreams
We're part of a force
One foot in front of another
We evolve, we stay the same
Repeating ourselves
Repeat after me
One foot in front of the other
Take a pill.
Stand still and run.

Eventually

I've been waiting for spaceships
Manned by Martians
To send alien bullets
Through my barriers.
Dodging the hits
I move from side to side
Wondering how to hide
As my defences subside.
Until eventually, you die.