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.


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.




This piece is entitled Earning A Living.


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.




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



Doors To Success:


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.


Good Morning little magpie,

The Sun does shine,

and I feel fine,

I’m not entirely sure why.



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 –


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.



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