Friday, 30 December 2011


Raymond Chandler’s ears were like chandeliers.
For his detective fiction, Chandler was respected by his peers,
But with auditory organs resembling something crystalline
He must have looked odd,
Or perhaps he looked fine.

Maybe his friends told one another:
‘Don’t mention Raymond’s ears when he appears.’
I wish someone could shed some light on Chandler’s ears,
The possibility that no one ever will is one of my growing fears.

Raymond Chandler’s initials are the same as the Red Cross,
The discovery of this coincidence was no loss for Roman Catholics,
Averse to ascribing significance to anything beyond their beliefs.
Atleast Chandler’s ears looked like something nice,
As opposed to something negative like funeral wreaths.

Thursday, 22 December 2011


Via Flickr:
When I draw, I find inner peace; a connection with my purest self. A self free from the petty intrigues foisted upon the ego by modern society in materialist circles. I find the freedom of roaming my imagination and the thrill is akin to rediscovering my childhood innocence: a place of inner calm where there are no rules, no fears and no limits. I allow my unconscious to guide my hand so, often, my drawing is effortless (or so it feels). I hope the results (this upload being my latest work) are satisfying to look at.

Wednesday, 21 December 2011


A decade is a period of time.
A long time as a deck aid, providing assistance on a ship.
After this time, you feel life had given you the slip—
You feel you have decayed.
Atleast you’ve kept afloat working in this way,
Satisfactorily keeping penury at bay.
But there’s no deck aid parade in addition to your pay.
You drink any port in a storm to keep warm,
Squinting at how the land lay.
At sea or in dock, you watch the clock,
Gazing into the distance for prospects looming on the horizon,
Wondering about your sweetheart back home and who she’s got her eyes on.
At times, with the relentless grind,
You find scenes from Mutiny on the Bounty playing on your mind.
On land, crew cuts are haircuts.
At sea, they are less kind.
Shaking off bits of cut-up crewmembers from your shoe,
You realise no one is more cut off than you.
A deck aid’s neck’s laid out on deck,
It tans to leather in the sun from its fleshy cardboard.
When you’re not seasick, you’re homesick,
Foam is quick to flow from the mouth if you drink too much saltwater,
Apparently, it drives you mad!
Overall, your life’s not bad; just boring, repetitive, tedious and sad.
You’re better off than most, you tell yourself…
With the conviction of a ghost…

Saturday, 10 December 2011


'WHAT'S MY NAME?' by Narolc
'WHAT'S MY NAME?', a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
This is the full colour version of my previous upload. I used gel pens and am disappointed that my scanner hasn't really done the image justice: there are lots of yellows in there that can't be seen! I hope people will still enjoy it.

Friday, 9 December 2011


In a military context, there are frequent references to ‘rear-guard actions.’ Personally, I wouldn’t care to be a rear guard, but I suppose if you join the forces you have to start at the bottom. This got me thinking…

In civilian terms, ‘captains of industry’ far outrank their military counterparts. This view is generally accepted, but not necessarily accepted by generals.

Conversely, a field marshal on a farm in the countryside is considerably inferior to a Field Marshal—the highest-ranking officer in the army.

Lieutenants—junior to captains—have no civilian equivalent. Except as an odd figure of speech indicating ‘owe tenants.’ There’s no such thing as ‘in lieu’ tenants who could serve as replacement tenants for landlords in need perhaps.

Corporal punishment further illustrates the gulf between civilian and military terminology. In the former, the term refers to physical punishment, in the latter; it can describe something any senior officer can potentially inflict on a junior-ranking corporal.

Major mistakes occur in all walks of life and, as long as they’re not major disasters, they tend to be overlooked.

‘Private affairs’ is an expression returning us to the arena of comparable differences between civilian and military contexts, which needn’t be elaborated upon here. But, it brings to mind the term ‘servicemen,’ which refers to men in the services. When said slowly, it describes what a prostitute does for a living.

Phonetics also creates confusion with colonels. Some of these high-ranking officers are nuts, outside of the army—phonetically speaking—they are completely harmless parts of nuts.

A Colonel is one rank below a Brigadier in the army. Perversely, to ‘brig a deer’ would involve a naval prison, which would be very cruel. One hopes there aren’t any brigadiers as cruel as that!

In today’s army, generals must resent being mistaken—by the general public—for a widely used prefix. It seems likely that no current General will be remembered in the same way as the historical greats like Caesar, Alexander, Hannibal or Napoleon. A visit to a general hospital for these second fiddles to Field Marshals must emphasise their feelings of relative anonymity. I wonder if they react with a momentary feeling of panic when a general election is called? I’m sure you get the general idea…

Tuesday, 6 December 2011


In Budapest, a Buddha pest harangues tourists with his joss sticks for sale.
Incensed when they ignore him, he’s hurt when they implore him to leave them alone.
Can’t they see he wants to be free from being hungry in Hungary?
All the same, with self-reproachful shame, he pities the less enlightened.
Even those who curse at him, but far less than the ones he’s frightened.
Raising his palm, using all his charm he blesses them all: ‘Namasté.’
Then he winks at Yanks he thinks are cranks shouting, ‘Have a nice day.’