This is page 78 of notepad #64 (since 1994, I have used spiral bound notepads to sketch, write, record my life, etc), which was filled earlier this month. I'm on pad #65 now!
The poem is typical of material I have occasionally performed and regularly post on my blog (link below), but the drawing at the bottom of the page is what I wanted to share on Flickr. I don't know who the woman is, presumably my unconscious based her on someone, I just like how it turned out. At risk of aggrandising a doodle, I consider this a drawing.
Monday, 30 January 2012
Sunday, 29 January 2012
The pub’s website is a sight,
The source of fright, discussed at night.
They serve hot food all day to anorexics.
Vans from Iceland make home deliveries
To the pub—igloos!
Surreal darts tournaments turn a mint:
A player holds a dart while others throw the board at them.
Value subtracted tax is levied by the ‘public Ann,’
Androgynous analytical being,
She believes the ghost of Sartre makes love to her every night.
Irregular customers think she’s right,
Trying with all their might
To catch the insouciant herbalist,
Whose nightly cries of:
‘Thyme at the bar now, please,’ fail to appease.
When the police are called to the pub to cause trouble,
Builders in the bar—wet cement on their faces, create designer rubble.
Eccentrics’ extant tricks pricks the conscience of the psychopathic doorman,
Selling lumps of plasticine to fools seeking illicit drugs.
A skull and crossed fire extinguishers tattooed on Ann’s forehead,
Emblematic of the pub,
Is photographed by Japanese tourists,
Poor wrists inadequately shoot video footage.
Pub folklore is imparted,
Officially, by the junior sub-bore with Alzheimer’s,
Fascinating the facile, and self-perpetuating myths,
Building the pub’s standing (which is) in the community.
Community chest cards from Monopoly games,
Donated by silhouette projectionists,
Are stacked on every available surface,
Revered by thirteen per cent of the locals.
Google maps think the pub is a black hole,
A black stole around Ann’s neck helps keep it under wraps,
Traps set for the unsuspecting are spoiled,
Triggered by masochists,
A mass—oh, kissed, one no one missed.
The pub’s décor, once a bore,
Now is no more, following the arsonist’s party.
As for the drinks, their peculiar stinks and fluorescent colours,
They’re cheap aphrodisiacs, expensive anti-emetics and invariably solid.
Hollow alcoholic people lurch like a church with a broken steeple,
On stools where they perch,
Feeling a part of a fashion,
As the weird pub’s popularity grows,
But why it does so, nobody knows.
Ann shocks all when, at forty-nine,
She marries a former milkman,
Who dresses as Queen Elizabeth I,
With the worst thing being,
The throne he’s surgically attached to.
But Ann’s retired milkman is kind,
He’s also clever and good in bed,
People seem to like him, and remember things he said,
Like his warning of the end of Worthing,
Which he foresaw once out of his head.
Ann’s husband glues his statements,
To furniture and people’s clothing,
Ensuring they adhere to his words,
And though many do no one knows his name,
Not even Ann, who thinks he’s called Stu,
But she isn’t sure; in fact she hasn’t a clue.
Anonymity had once been his ambition,
Having been something of his family tradition.
But his years with dairy products have made him hanker for more,
Like self-pasteurisation on the floor.
He’d better leave a note for Ann,
He won’t be seeing her anymore!