Dave the Crab and the Giant Called Ned

Here is a children’s poem wot I did.

There once was a crab who lived under a rock.

He had a nice sofa and a grandfather clock.

It was big and proud

And ticked ever so loud

And stood atop an ornate marble block.

The crab was called Dave and he was ever so brave,

For he once fought a giant called Ned.

 

Ned was huge and ugly to see,

And refused to let good people be.

A tattered old cap sat atop his big head

And he needed nine mattresses to make up his bed.

He’d growl and he’d roar and with one rumbling snore,

He could shake the whole Earth to its molten rock core.

He wore no shoes for his feet were too big,

And weighed him down when he did his giant’s jig.

But he wore one large and heavy and ever so smelly

Polyester and cotton blend sock.

It may sound silly, or come as a shock,

But the one thing he feared was a grandfather clock.

 

Ned came thundering along the beach one morn,

Swinging his club and blowing a big brass horn.

And anyone he should chance to meet,

Narrowly avoiding being crushed by his feet,

He’d bend over and shout right in their face:

“Get out of my way, make some space!

Get off my beach right now I say.

This is not a place for children to play.

I shall smash any sand castles on my way to the sea,

And anyone that should try to join me, I shall gobble them

Up – I’ll eat them for my tea!”

 

Now Dave worked nights, so was attempting to sleep.

He’d never been in a fight and this record he wanted to keep,

But a rude man eating giant was something he could not abide,

This brutish bully he would not let slide.

So Dave poked his head out from beneath his rock,

He strolled up to Ned’s tattered and horrible sock

And gave his toes one heck of a pinch.

But the giant did not move not even one inch.

Ned scooped up Dave and looked him in the eye

And said “Silly crab, I will make you cry!”

 

He gave a big laugh and he raised his club,

“any last words before I make you blub?”

 “Yes,” said Dave as of his life he took stock,

“Please take good care of my grandfather clock.”

Ned paused and he spluttered, he stammered and stuttered,

He whimpered and shivered until at last he muttered:

“don’t mention them or I’ll knock of your block.”

Dave said “Just listen, you might hear a tick-tock.”

Ned pricked up his ears and listen he did,

And from under the rocks from where it hid

He could hear those doleful tones of the grandfather clock,

He could hear every tick and every tock.

Dave, well he couldn’t believe his luck,

And like a chicken he began to cluck

“Mr. Giant I don’t mean to mock,

But imagine being scared of an old silly clock.”

 

Ned dropped Dave back onto the sand

And covered one ear with one very big hand,

And said “never again will I come to this land!

Get away Mr. Crab, get back under your rock,

Attend to that terrifying grandfather clock.

One second it ticks and another it tocks

It never ends and it never stops

The tolling of hours, oh that nasty chime,

The constant plodding of unending time!

It makes me shiver, it makes me feel cold,

Reminding me that one day I’ll be old!”

 

And with that Ned left never to return,

All the beach goers need fear now

Is a spot of sunburn.

So, when next on the beach,

Give Dave a thought,

Should there be a giant you need to thwart,

Make sure a grandfather clock is in reach.

 

 

There weren’t that nice? My collection of ridiculous and utterly pointless short stories is currently free to download, so if you don’t you’re a fool.

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Good Evening Fellow Human… I Appreciate Your Appearance

Hello.

Through reading these letters you are connecting yourself with me. Just by rolling your eyes over these words

Meaningless words.

you are forming a bond with me, that given the right circumstances might be stronger than that between lovers. Between the best of friends.

Or is that too deep for a Monday evening? Is that the pretentious ramblings of an alcohol fuelled fool?

I don’t know, but I have some poems for you if you’re interested. If you’re not. then what are you still doing here?

Imagine if I was a duck. How cool would that be?

I’d go…. Quack! QUACK!

But I would not quack a third time, as that would just be silly. I’d likely be shot, or disenfranchised from the duck and poultry community.

anyway, poem the first.

 

One day, far in the future,

I may look back and

think.

maybe, just maybe, at this moment

I was on the

brink.

of happiness.

 

And in my idleness I’ll discover

that ecstasy comes not just from

a lover.

it comes from another

just willing

……………………………to be.

 

With all their intricacies and

complexities, they feel completely

at ease.

just being.

 

and one day far in the future

I’ll look back

and wonder why I didn’t

just be. Why I tried so hard

not to be me just to see

if you’d still be.

 

but at least I will know

even if I didn’t show

that I was very close

……………… so close.

to being happy.

 

 

There that was nice wasn’t it? No? Everyone’s a critic these days.

 

Imagine being all alone. In the world, imagine if everyone disappeared. That’d be quite nice wouldn’t it? I could sleep all day then without people poking me with sticks and telling me to do things. I wouldn’t have to pretend to care about people and their problems, and problems and their people.

Hah, remember that time when I said imagine if I was a duck?

 

this poem is called BORED.

 

Boredboredboredboredboredbored

boredboredboredboredboredbored

I’mbored! Bored bored bored bald

hah, I just said bald, bald. imagine being bald

imagine saying bald.

baldbaldbaldbald.

sometimes you can say  words so  many times they lose all meaning.

like I Love You.

I hate you.

life….

BOReD BoReD

I’m so fucking bored.

 

There. That was some improv poetry, but there’s no way of proving that is there? Was it off the cuff poetry? or was it meticulously planned? You shall never know.

the greatest trick the Devil pulled …

….. was this really good one where he made it look like his head fell off… but it didn’t. Was pretty cool though.

 

Yours

 

FuzzyRambler.

 

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.

 

 

 

There Is A Potato In My Bed.

I got into a really dark place last night. Dark and psychotic, I think I may have killed someone, but that’s neither here nor there. In my excursion into madness I saw the world for the cruel, twisted mistress that she is. Then my phone battery died and I knew then that I was truly alone…  I wrote a poem of my terrible experience, it is as follows.
Be warned, it is not for the faint of heart.

There’s a Potato in my bed…

Oh my God there’s a potato in my bed!

Who Put it there? Which one of you sick bastards put a potato in my bed?
Was it you Eric? Huh? Don’t look at him, look at me.
I’m asking you a question damn it!

THERE’S A POTATO IN MY BED!

AAAARRRRRGGGG!