Success? That’s for Losers!

Ordinarily, I would have some faint idea as to what the titles of my posts were in reference to, and then waste everybody’s time explaining. Today is an exception… in terms of knowing what the title is about, not in the time wasting. As you can see, time wasting his occurring this very instant.

Recently, word has it that we should be eating 7 portions of fruit and vegetables a day. Why we should spend several long hours chewing tasteless veg and peeling incredibly demanding fruits, is simple. Fruit and Veg are magic.  They can set right any wrongs, cure any ills. Look here for example. This carrot is so distraught by the notion of poverty, and the ever increasing gap between the mega rich and the poor that he’s punching a capitalist in the face on our behalf. If we all get our recommended 7 a day, it won’t be long until economic balance has been instated, by our brilliant veg.

                                                                         5aday

 

 

Still on the subject of veg (my mind does this quite a lot) here is a picture entitled ‘Captive Scarecrow.’ I do apologise  about the Jesus imagery, it wasn’t intended. I am in no way saying that scarecrows are in any way like Jesus. No matter how well they protect our agricultural investments in peaceful, non-violent ways (much in the way Jesus might). That sort of stuff tends to offend people.

captivescarecrow

 

I don’t know what you said to these eyes, but I think you should be ashamed of yourself.

eyes

This is called ‘Honest Satire.’ You see, I was taken by pretention and thought I’d try my hand at some sort of political satire. For those that can’t read my scrawling, which will be many, the sign says ‘I wanted to do a piece of political satire, but I don’t know enough about politics, so honesty will have to do.’

honest satire

This piece is called ‘Medicate Me.’ Because that seems an arty, deep justification for a silly drawing.  Look! Look at its face!

medicate!

I was busy reading over a man’s shoulder on the train the other day. Unfortunately, he was prepared for the likes of me and swiftly turned the page. Touché train man… touché.

readingshoulder

Poems? Who’s for some crappy poems. I only have 2 this week, and they’re short silly ones. The first you have to click on to be able to read it.

dreaming1

 

And lastly a poem called ‘An Arse Hole.’

Please don’t hate me for having no control

Please don’t despise me for what I don’t know

But feel free to not like me for being an arse hole.

The Obsession of A Self-Indulgent Fool.

Here we are again. More doodles, poetry and time wasting. Enjoy, or don’t I can’t tell you what to do.

mildlyamusinggrave2mildlyamusinggrave1

These two are called Cynical Stones. I figure if you can’t be mildly amusing in death, then you were probably a boring sod in life.

On an unrelated note, I met this guy in a park in the early hours of the morning. He freaked me out a little bit, so much so that I misspelt baguettes. I don’t know whether I could trust him, he had a sinister look about him, on the other hand I do really like baguettes misspelled or otherwise.

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This piece is entitled Earning A Living.

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So pleased was I with this oh so poignant piece of social commentary that I went so far as to sign it. The phrase ‘earn a living’ has always confused and enraged me with equal measure. You have to earn a living apparently. You’re not allowed to just be alive, you have to earn that right. As we all know, we all begged relentlessly to be born, filling out existence request forms so it’s only right we spend 8 hours a day five days a week, working tirelessly doing something we hate. I’m afraid to even attempt to eat a Mars Bar in case a government official jumps through the window and starts yelling at me for not having earned it.

 

This is Famoose, it’s a famous moose. Hence, Famoose… it’s clever.

 

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This is entitled The Post Office Queue, I feel it’s fairly self explanatory.

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Doors To Success:

doorstosuccess

There’s a poor drunk man passed out in a pile of his own vomit at the bottom of the stairs to the Doors to Success, behind which the talented, beautiful and rich people live. The signs on the door say ‘No dogs… or working class.’ because what’s doodling without whimsy? It started off just as a crude drawing of stairs, this evolved from that.  Notice how the pavement’s all crooked? That’s probably symbolic of something, I’ll award points to anyone who can come up with the most absurd and most pretentious analysis.

This is a magpie. It accompanied a lengthy poem. Only the first stanza was any good, and that was shit.

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Good Morning little magpie,

The Sun does shine,

and I feel fine,

I’m not entirely sure why.

 

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This is meant to be a rain slicked window.  It accompanies this poem of a semi-serious nature Annoyingly the formatting was the most interesting part of it, but WordPress  keeps changing it, and I have not the technical know-how nor the patience to do battle with it. Please don’t judge it too harshly.

 

I can’t feel the rain.

I can see it, I know I

Must be wet but I can’t

Feel it.

I can’t feel the rain.

 

Like a deluge it falls, it hisses and splutters, gurgling in the gutters,

Enthusiastically it mutters. But

I can’t feel it

 

It’s filling up the lower floors trickling –

No Gushing! Gushing through the windows, and I don’t know if it will slow… oh well, here I go.

I’m drowning. I’m submerged

 

And floundering.

Kicking, screaming

Soundlessly and without motion devoid of all emotion. What’s with all this commotion?

 

The rain?

I can’t feel it.

Now I’ve sunk

To the bottom

I lose count of what I drunk and where I drunk it.

And if I was funny, or just an obnoxious little shit.

I know nothing.

My mind is blank like an empty bank –

Vault

It does its utmost to keep people out, but I don’t doubt

 

That there’s nothing there to take.

If there is I’m sure it’s fake, counterfeit… unoriginal, most assuredly

 

I can’t fucking feel it!

Is it to rain for all of eternity? It doesn’t matter because I can say for certainty,

That I don’t

That I won’t

Feel it

 

I can’t feel the rain.

 

I’m A Tortured Soul That Needs To Be Taken Seriously.

So with that in mind, here’s a picture of a man with an egg for a head. He’s a private investigator. His name is Tim.

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I think I may have poisoned myself with alcohol, as I am now into day three of symptoms related to a night of heavy drinking. It’s either that I’m dying, or I am an addict suffering from withdrawal, either way it led to doodles and poetry, most of which is shit, some of which is dark and brooding… and shit. Hopefully these are the funny (funny used in its broadest sense) ones/ones that are okay.

This next piece is called Bottled Personality. I was wearing my finest social commentary hat, it was large and green.

Bottled Personality

This is a cigarette in a crudely drawn ash tray. Followed by a poem that decides it will rhyme when it is dramatic to do so.

puff

 

Puff

The smoke climbs straight

– It doesn’t spiral

– it doesn’t crawl

– it doesn’t dance.

 

Puff

Do you smoke? I ask

– I do now

Do you like it? I ask

– perhaps I will soon

Do you love I ask

– not you.

 

Puff

The smoke is caught

Caught by the wind.

– it doesn’t swirl

– it doesn’t fly.

it disappears.

I get the impression you do not enjoy what you do

do you Love? I ask.

-not you.

 

puff

Do you smoke because it makes you feel arty?

Does it make you feel alive?

Are you a reckless, careless rebel

who gave up on causes long ago?

-They stopped being cool

 

Puff

it is gone now, whatever it was,

it is nothing, it is dead and

you have gone with it

A part of you went with that one cigarette

 

Who are you now?

-Who was I ever?

Do you smoke? I ask.

– more now than ever.

Do you Love? I ask

-You I will never.

 

 

The following is a picture of me, if I were an alcoholic comedian wearing a suit. Although it is a two dimensional picture drawn in biro, it is better looking than the real me. The real me has two heads and may or may not be part turtle. It is entitled

‘Life Is A Joke, But Like Most Jokes, It’s Not Particularly Funny.’

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My Brain:

your last

The words say ‘Your last thinking session closed unexpectedly, would you like to try and recover some level of cognitivity?’   Which google later assured me was a word, but I still have my doubts.

 

This is entitled Cliché. It is a person drowning in a sea of words, there is a light house in the background, it represents something, but I don’t know what… maybe Batman.

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This one is called Public Transport. I feel it needs no explanation.

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This picture and following poem are both entitled ‘These Aren’t Particularly Good.’

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Poor little man

why do you cry?

have you grown up

to find life has gone by?

 

Poor little man

why do you cry?

have you discovered that

everyone dies.

 

Poor little man

sit against the wall

one day you’ll show them

show them all.

 

Poor little man

crying in the night

A pathetic cliché

Alone and affright.

 

Stupid Little Man.

You are grown now.

 

And last but not least here is a piece entitled ‘Good Heavens There’s a Goat.’

goat

One day this blog may return to being a standard platform to rant about various trivial matters that bother me. But for now I will continue to plague my followers with my silliness and hopefully inspire some to take out contracts on me. It will liven up my life a little bit and I would be less inclined to doodle and scrawl the poetry of a five year old. If anyone would like to purchase some of my original artwork, they can do so by leaving out scraps of meat, or saucers of wine out on their doorstep at night. By morning it shall be gone and in their stead will be a doodle or a poem, depending on how good the wine was… or I’ll curl up and die on your doorstep, which will be artistic in its own right.

Finally, a space to write something pointless.

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I am oddly proud of my ability to ignore everything going on around me and put all my focus and attention into creating something of a fairly poor standard. I have recently been diagnosed with a rare condition, called Doodleitis, which means I am unhealthily obsessed with doodling. I am no artist, nor am I a poet… nor am I really a human being, but rather a small ferret like creature posing as one.

I have a book that is getting filled up with doodles, poems, writings, scribblings, collections of fallen leaves and pebbles that resemble political figures. As I am bored, I feel compelled to share with you some of my personal favourites that I have written/drawn/spawned this week. Prepare your mind holes for a grand feast of originality and wit.

 

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This is a drawing and a short poem. The poem reads:

“Sad Moon, Sad Moon

You’ll feel better soon.

   Or maybe you won’t

And if you don’t

I’ll still look up to you.”

 

It has a melancholy sort of feel, and I like that. Also the picture makes me laugh for no reason.

 

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There’s nothing worse than a badly drawn laptop telling you that ‘your concept of reality is flawed’. I’ve had to return many computers back to PC world for their constant need to make philosophical and/or psychological remarks.

 

 

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This one is fairly self-explanatory. It’s a man/pineapplelizard/fox with wellington boots. He’s yelling the word gherkin because he’s angry with society.

 

Now for part 2 of this art exhibition. The following are some statements I found scrawled in my book.

 

  1. The real problem with hindsight is that it’s never there when you need it.

 

  1. Violence is never the answer. Unless the question is what word can connect the following: Fight, War, Kill, Stab, kick….

 

  1. Never say never! Unless the situation calls for it.

 

 

If you got this far I thank you for your patience. Unfortunately, there is no payoff for reaching the end. I was going to reward you with a picture of a transvestite ancient Greek philosopher shouting obscenities but my scanner decided to stop working at this point. But I will tell you the obscenity was fuck. Which apparently is a really bad one. Fuck… FUCK.

I don’t fully understand why because I can say the word Duck with the same sort of aggression and in the same context and no one would really care. If I walked into a post office and shouted DUCK YOU, YOU’RE ALL A BUNCH OF DUCKING WASTES OF SPACE. DUCK DUCK DUCK! I’ll probably have to undergo some sort of psychiatric evaluation, but no one would be too offended. What’s that all about? Why are bad words bad? Surely it’s the context that makes a word bad. If Cunt meant ‘extremely nice person’ we wouldn’t reel back in horror at its utterance… cunt… cunt. Punt…

YOU DUCKING PUNTS!

 

Are you offended by that? You should be.