Tumbleweed Memories

Boxing Day Saleouts

noreply@blogger.com (Chainz) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 20:28:00 +0000

Handing out greetings and cheer to people we acknowledge once a year, we count the cost of 24 hours of indulgence and effluent. We count and we consider, we look at all the good things we have received, the love, the closeness, the sparkly presents, we ruminate over all the exceptional grand things we delivered: the joy in a child's eye, a Rage Against the Machine No.1 ( yeah that'll teach 'em all a lesson).
Then as we sit and groan and whimper because we overfed our hedonistic bellies with candy covered, honey roasted, alcohol soaked stocking fillers, we decide in our infinite wisdom to venture to the shops to waste what little of our savings we didn't spend on tinsel, to purchase even more crap because some minimum wage slave with a felt pen has slashed the prices on their most worthless treats.
Sometimes you just have to leave that last after dinner mint behind.
Cretins.

Turtles

noreply@blogger.com (Chainz) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 20:14:00 +0000

Hand Grenade amputation.
Overblown miscommunication.
Interplanetary exploration.
Excessive expansion.
All the Turtle wants is a toffee.

Leftovers

noreply@blogger.com (Chainz) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 19:28:00 +0000

Morcambe and Wise provide yuletide laughs from the past, their grainy images straining through the broken screen, smoke spewing from mangled wires that rise in ovation to expertly timed comedy routine.
Dancing candle flames diminish slipping closer to death and ornamental holder, the addition of holly and berry making the wax feel no more or less festive as it sizzles.
The perfectly paired carpet and furniture strewn with wrapping paper and blood. The effort of preparing presents and bullets. The instant of discovery and explosion, the aftermath of refuse and evidence.
Special occasion crockery stained with Turkey juice, gravy and gunpowder, chipped for eternity by spinning bone fragment.
Glittering tinsel decorations dimmed by Christmas fading, pine needles falling like tears of pain from once proud trees of celebration.
She will never live to see the joy of her own children.
She will never wrap presents, decorate her house, write cards, and roast chesnuts on an open fire.
And she will never find out that Santa Claus doesn't exist.

A Tumbleweed Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 00:36:00 +0000

I'm going to bed Mrs No-One
So you'd best find Mr No-One soon
Cause Christmas is just a day away,
And summer's in the past.

I said "Christmasses in the past
That we can see".
I'm going to bed Mrs No-One -
You'd better find your no-one fast.

Make Me Gold

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 01:17:00 +0000

Make me gold,
And turn me into coins,
And let me pass through
Pockets, sewers and drains,
Until your face washes away.

The Authentic Cowboys

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 23:55:00 +0000

We are the authentic cowboys,
And we go robbing banks with proper guns in tow.
And our lassoes are used to snare the girls
Who leer when "Two Guns Tom" gets near.
We are the authentic cowboys,
And we go leaving love on railway tracks.
And use our sneers to snare the bad guys
We are the authentic cowboys.
We really wouldn't rip you off -
We're made of better stuff.
We are the authentic cowboys,
No mule's a gonna stand in our way.
Take a dime and take it back
And ride along your way.
We are the authentic cowboys
Whatever the naysayers say.
We take our gals to burlesque bars
And lay these cards seven nights a week.
And take our hides to the Sheriff's place
And shoot him in the face.
We are The Authentic Cowboys,
We're great at everything.
We're The Authentic Cowboys -
Not the real thing.

Between Breaths

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 00:32:00 +0000

We all live by the last breath -
We long for each to reach the next.
And in between, we remember
times where paper aeroplanes
flew out to space,
(or some such stupid things
we long for when our world caves in).
Or else shut down the burden
Weighing heavy with what lies ahead.

Skies Are Blue

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 00:55:00 +0000

Everything's sad,
and nothing's all that bad.
I'll have sad dreams when I'm smiling.
Rome is dying,
the world is crying.
I'll have to beg to find you now.
You're a shroud I can't discover;
A mind I can't recover.
Everything's bad,
and everything's bad.
But the words made sense
onceuponabind.
But now they barely rhyme.
Everything's sad,
and nothing's not so bad.
And the world is crying,
and your Rome is dying.
You'll have to find yourself,
lest you beg in your sleep,
Skies are blue.

You Are My Head

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 00:13:00 +0000

You are my head
You are my bed.
You are my grave
You are my slave.

You are my genes
You are my means.
You are my ears
You are my fears.

You are my eyes.
You are my cries.
You are my coast
You are my ghost.

You are my death
You are my breath.
You are my jeers
You are my tears.

You are my spies
You are my lies.
You are my dread
You are my head.

A Splash In Your Eye

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 23:42:00 +0000

Another masterpiece
flies off the lilypad
and splashes your kid sister
in her eye.

Maybe profound statements,
Belong in the archives,
Possibly feelings
can last a longer lifetime?

Another masterpiece
flies off the silly pads
you put your face on with -
A splash in your eye.

Canasono Besprela

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 23:28:00 +0000

Negelo belofi, berresa.
Doem Filero.
Il a Doem Filero.

Convalo, magrapoli is agraphol.
Is agraphol, Il magra.
Il magra a magras!

Negelo belofi, berresa.
Il caramanda - il, caramanda.

Convalo, rulimentra,
a baleri, rulimentra.
A carase Doem Filero.
A carese Doem Filero!

Adoranota Doem Filero.

Negelo belofi, berresa.

Il caramanda - il, caramanda.
Un bultero o bulero.

Doem Filero...
Doem Filero...

Ulatra besprela, il se
Canasona Besprela.

"Doem Filero! Doem Filero!
A grivelaro!
Filero, Filero!"
Non!
Non!
Non!"

Negelo belofi, berresa.
Negelo belofi, berresa
Doem Filero.

Ulatra besprela, il se
Canasona Besprela.

Moonsequiter

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 00:08:00 +0000

And Beethoven's rained on
As he moves to the shelter,
Where deaf people
go to sleep.

Where dead people sleep.
Beethoven's reign's on
the shelter.
We can't hear you.

Old Times

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 23:25:00 +0000

Young times only tend to fade,
Reality will let them in.

But what if time's a static thing,
We live around and move within
To make some sense of nothing?

Old times only tend to fade,
Reality will float within.

But what if time's a static thing,
We live around and move within
To make our sense of nothing?

The Price of Decorations

noreply@blogger.com (Chainz) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 20:58:00 +0000

Jingle Bells
Festive Hell.
Thoughtless treats and sickly eats,
Pickled brain cells and free range meats.
Buying love for another year and pretending for a holly jolly moment that it will dissipate the tears.
Decorating your halls with stolen Holly, pissing away a months worth of work in the trolley.
The glint in a child's eye burning to a cinder with the cry of no batteries included.
Manufacturers manufacture the idyllic yuletide fantasy, a snowy fraud so blatant it eclipses the winter of nature.
Angels atop pretend trees look down upon cracked crackers and Christmas dinner beatings, crying over baubles and drowning tinsel.
Santa Claus sells out, story land cottages and the smell of fresh snow replaced by stockholder Reindeer and corporate Elves.
The agony of Family diluted by Xmas alcoholism and televisual embolisms.
Religious significance and Nature's magnificence left in the back room with the children and animals.
And then it is over, another years permitted indulgence and we return to the dawn of a new year wondering whether we will last to enjoy that next Christmas cheer.

You Are Tumbleweed Memories

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 23:10:00 +0000

You Are Tumbleweed Memories,
And these are my words to you:

Snow falls by windows
Into whirlpools
To disappear.
But you are Tumbleweed Memories
And you are still here.

Christmas Is Coming

noreply@blogger.com (Chainz) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 20:41:00 +0000

Bollocks

Melodies Not Meant

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 22:35:00 +0000

I look at the walls
when the stars aren't dancing
and listen to melodies
that aren't for romancing.

I stare at the ceiling
when I'm hurting from feeling
my feelings for you.

I walk through the halls
when the sun won't start shining.
I cover my crimes in my sleep
when my heart is declining to weep.

It's where lost loves linger and leap
to the notes of the tune that I keep
playing out on repeat...

I look at the walls,
When the stars aren't dancing
And listen to melodies
Not meant for romancing.

Orange Birds

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 00:50:00 +0000

Orange birds slip by on blue,
I sit beneath them,
looking at you.

Blue Spilling

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 00:13:00 +0000

There's little point stopping the blue
Spilling from the factories,
And slipping into homes.
Where men beat up wives,
And kids sit on steps
And prices go up,
And you're feeling kept.
When Christmas lights go on
And you want to cry.
(Well, let yourself cry.)
There's little point stopping the blue
Slipping from your guilt
And running through your home.
It's only pain you felt.
You earned it, after all.

Father Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Zpiral) — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 22:55:00 +0000

There's a town I tiptoe around
Like a tramp on Monday mornings,
Hoping to avoid her.
And telling myself
There's a town I tiptoe around,
Like a kid on Christmas morning,
Looking for unwrapped gifts,
And evidence that
There's a town I tiptoe around
Like a drunk on his last orders.
Hoping to avoid him
Reminding herself
Father Christmas doesn't exist.

The Tumbleweed Memories Hall of Shame Entry Number 3

noreply@blogger.com (Chainz) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 21:45:00 +0000

My third addition into the Hall of Shame can thank Alice Cooper, for if I had not drop kicked Cooper into the Hall I would not have recalled my disappointment in you Mr Wes Craven, yes we all know you created Freddy Krueger (and I'm sure Robert Englund thanks you) and that you shocked flea pit cinema goers with your grubby Last House On the Left, but what I will remember you for is selling out like a two dollar whore to become a company bitch for The Weinsteins. Your Scream films are woeful studio examples of horror films (cool TV hip cast, generic teen friendly soundtrack, trendy post modern references) and Cursed (you know, the Scott Baio Werewolf movie) actually made me salt my popcorn with tears of disgust, oh and the little matter of "Presenting" movies such as Wishmaster and Dracula 2000 (If your still waiting for those classics to get admitted into the AFI's list of important pieces of art, I'd probably get a sandwich, it may be some time).

The Occasional Random Double Bill of Doom

noreply@blogger.com (Chainz) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 20:57:00 +0000

Being the first of a never ending and never improving series of posts in which I recommend (at spear point if i must) double bills of Movies, Albums, Non-prescription drugs for you to endure.

Today, a double bill of films with a tenuous religious link.

1. The Wicker Man
In a shocking move I'm picking not the Nicholas Cage disaster but the late Edward Woodward's greatest achievement on the silver screen, Christopher Lee sings and wears a dress, Britt Ekland sings and wears nothing and everyone loudly sings Cuckoo!! I know I may sound like I am being facetious but I'm not, I love this film. The word unique gets tossed around with so little care for where it lands these days, but Robin Hardy's picture is a textbook definition. From it's achingly beautiful folk score (courtesy of Paul Giovanni), and perfect choice of locations to it's still traumatic denouement and the pitch perfect performance of Woodward as the deeply religious policeman. It's portrayal of the lifestyle of the folk of Summerisle is both meticulously researched but also incredibly attractively shown, hence the island's inhabitants become more agreeable than the films supposed hero, a rare occurence in film.

2. The Ninth Configuration
EVERYONE knows about The Exorcist, and a few admit to knowing it's pitiful sequel, but novelist William Peter Blatty's directorial debut is almost an unknown film despite it being an astonishing mix of blatant comedy, unexpected violence and religious exploration. In a castle right out of a Universal horror movie, supposedly insane Vietnam War veterans explore there deluded fantasies under the watchful eye of their compassionate doctor, who may or may not be just as round the twist as his patients. Expertly performed by a catalogue of character actors (including James Miller, Scott Wilson, Joe Spinell, and Richard Lynch) and littered with memorable dialogue ("Infinite goodness is creating a being you know, in advance, is going to complain."). The film doesn't force it's religious convictions upon it's audience but let's them decide for themselves where they stand. An outstanding achievment.

Impossibly Possibly So, But Possibly Probably Not

noreply@blogger.com (Chainz) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 21:03:00 +0000

From the first time I asked you looked at me with a face of barbed cynicism and chain link criticism, a harsh hostile environment built by someone so young.
Your eyes seemed to be striving for some other place to be and continued to be disappointed when they yet again returned from their reconnaissance to find me still there.
Your fingers played anxiously with the strap of your satchel as if concealed within the fabric was a secret button that could transport you across the playground or to another break period.
Chewing ever harder on your bubblegum, seemingly praying that it would become able to lose one's voice in the flavourless lump losing it's flavour in your mouth.
I push for an answer, like my impatience is a bonus trait you get for free in this feeble five foot package wrapped in navy wool and grey cotton.
Like security guards trained in crowd control your classroom mafia guide you away spraying giggles of pity like a can of mace.
I was only thirteen when I died.

Thoughtless Wander

noreply@blogger.com (Chainz) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 20:51:00 +0000

Elephants don't rule the world.
But you don't hear them bitching about it.

Serendipity

noreply@blogger.com (Chainz) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 20:36:00 +0000

Pursed Lips.
Uncertain Glow.
Worlds Colliding.
Sinking Ships.
Buried too Slow.
Nighttime Smiling.
Locked Doors.
Open Scars.
Someday, Somewhere.
Dreaming too Far.
Animal Magnetism.
Futile Connection.
Fatal Decision.
Overrules all Consideration.
Daydream flying over land unspoiled.
A moment that could last forever.
Crashes then burning when jealousy uncoiled.