Via Flickr:
Collage/drawing using gel pens. It was originally a landscape shaped picture but I flipped it round. I think it looks better this way.
Free association styled prose from Julian Cloran, visual artist, writer, poet and agent provocateur. Random musings, which are sometimes cynical, but always intended for amusement, stimulation and entertainment. Comments are welcomed so don't be shy. Simply click on 'comments' to post yours.
Friday 29 June 2012
SURREAL SHOE
THE WORST VAMPIRE IN THE WORLD
The world’s worst, certainly most inappropriate, vampire is a blood donor!
When he looks in a mirror he sees his shadow,
While his reflection follows him everywhere.
He loves sunbathing and when night falls he sleeps like a log.
He is so averse to danger—to it he is a stranger,
The only occasion when the stakes were high was once inside a bookie’s.
He really wasn’t cut out for a life of vampirism,
In fact, he had false teeth!
The idea of him biting anyone’s neck was quite beyond belief.
Blood-sucking suits certain creatures, he reasons, like mosquitos,
But he prefers sinking his teeth into Doritos.
Other vampires would look down on him, perhaps,
Or maybe they would pity him, thinking he is dim.
How could they suggest that he, at least, got started?
By advising him to prey on haemophiliacs who bleed copiously when targeted?
In the absence of proper guidance, his blood consumption avoidance continued,
With no close friends or family,
No one to make sense of the expression ‘blood is thicker than water,’
He is definitely no vampire but still he feels confused,
Especially by the erections he gets when he sees skin that’s contused.
He reads Dracula and watches Buffy the Vampire Slayer with curiosity and detachment,
Associating with Goths in an attempt to find his true self,
His dreams feature being buried alive in a coffin on a dim shelf,
While scenes from Nosferatu are projected onto walls dripping with blood,
He wakes with the foul taste of clichés in his mouth and to the sound of a loud thud.
His eyes, tired and bloodshot, disguise little of his inner torment,
This strongly appeals a girl, who is about his age, he finds himself with at around this stage.
For her, discombobulated vampires are all the rage,
The relationship is an exciting new chapter for him and she is a brand new page,
One I shall leave unturned at this point because I am bored with this poem.
When he looks in a mirror he sees his shadow,
While his reflection follows him everywhere.
He loves sunbathing and when night falls he sleeps like a log.
He is so averse to danger—to it he is a stranger,
The only occasion when the stakes were high was once inside a bookie’s.
He really wasn’t cut out for a life of vampirism,
In fact, he had false teeth!
The idea of him biting anyone’s neck was quite beyond belief.
Blood-sucking suits certain creatures, he reasons, like mosquitos,
But he prefers sinking his teeth into Doritos.
Other vampires would look down on him, perhaps,
Or maybe they would pity him, thinking he is dim.
How could they suggest that he, at least, got started?
By advising him to prey on haemophiliacs who bleed copiously when targeted?
In the absence of proper guidance, his blood consumption avoidance continued,
With no close friends or family,
No one to make sense of the expression ‘blood is thicker than water,’
He is definitely no vampire but still he feels confused,
Especially by the erections he gets when he sees skin that’s contused.
He reads Dracula and watches Buffy the Vampire Slayer with curiosity and detachment,
Associating with Goths in an attempt to find his true self,
His dreams feature being buried alive in a coffin on a dim shelf,
While scenes from Nosferatu are projected onto walls dripping with blood,
He wakes with the foul taste of clichés in his mouth and to the sound of a loud thud.
His eyes, tired and bloodshot, disguise little of his inner torment,
This strongly appeals a girl, who is about his age, he finds himself with at around this stage.
For her, discombobulated vampires are all the rage,
The relationship is an exciting new chapter for him and she is a brand new page,
One I shall leave unturned at this point because I am bored with this poem.
Wednesday 27 June 2012
Tuesday 19 June 2012
EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY REVISITED)
Via Flickr:
Collage/drawing incorporating a copy of a previously uploaded drawing: 'Every Dog Has His Day' (in my DRAWINGS set here).
Sunday 17 June 2012
DORA
Why pan Dora’s box?
Because: it’s full of socks and hopeless.
Like her box, bereft of hope,
Dora, drunk in her bedroom, has a grope,
Below faded pictures of the Pope.
Beneath her bed she keeps a rope,
Above which she dreams of hanging,
She’s frequently woken by next-door’s banging.
Tired, she blinks,
She’ll be late for work again,
Fired, she thinks.
Low-life regulars in her local buy her drinks,
Their breath and clothing, like her life, stinks,
Numbed to their advances, into depression she sinks.
She ponders her life, analysing links,
Occasionally feeling her life’s a jinx,
Gone are her chances of straightening kinks.
Her days of financial hardship and self-reproach,
Are lonely periods without a life coach,
But what could she learn anyway?
Except for definitions of shades of grey,
That corresponds with the segments of each day.
She has dark circles under her eyes,
And lacks things in her life to prize,
She’s neither extremely foolish nor overly wise,
She’s existing in a trap that’s crap and no surprise.
Because: it’s full of socks and hopeless.
Like her box, bereft of hope,
Dora, drunk in her bedroom, has a grope,
Below faded pictures of the Pope.
Beneath her bed she keeps a rope,
Above which she dreams of hanging,
She’s frequently woken by next-door’s banging.
Tired, she blinks,
She’ll be late for work again,
Fired, she thinks.
Low-life regulars in her local buy her drinks,
Their breath and clothing, like her life, stinks,
Numbed to their advances, into depression she sinks.
She ponders her life, analysing links,
Occasionally feeling her life’s a jinx,
Gone are her chances of straightening kinks.
Her days of financial hardship and self-reproach,
Are lonely periods without a life coach,
But what could she learn anyway?
Except for definitions of shades of grey,
That corresponds with the segments of each day.
She has dark circles under her eyes,
And lacks things in her life to prize,
She’s neither extremely foolish nor overly wise,
She’s existing in a trap that’s crap and no surprise.
'FROG' DOOR KNOCKER
Via Flickr:
I saw this unusual and, I think, lovely door knocker in Brighton and had to add it to my door knockers set here.
Saturday 9 June 2012
HIPPIES
Stoned hippies worship worse hips than
their own,
Praising those who emit an arthritic groan,
It makes them feel better about their pelvic regions,
Passing round joints in swift rotation,
Reflecting on hip joints in their legions.
An alpha-hippie who is making a point,
Is unconsciously trying to take over the joint.
The other hippies refuse to stand for it,
They refuse to stand at all,
Struggling with their overall comprehension,
Of skeletal structures like a socket with a ball.
Ironically, they’re bone idol while their idol is a bone.
Someone plucks at a guitar and drones a paean to the pelvis,
His stoned compatriots are transfixed although he’s hardly Elvis.
Praising those who emit an arthritic groan,
It makes them feel better about their pelvic regions,
Passing round joints in swift rotation,
Reflecting on hip joints in their legions.
An alpha-hippie who is making a point,
Is unconsciously trying to take over the joint.
The other hippies refuse to stand for it,
They refuse to stand at all,
Struggling with their overall comprehension,
Of skeletal structures like a socket with a ball.
Ironically, they’re bone idol while their idol is a bone.
Someone plucks at a guitar and drones a paean to the pelvis,
His stoned compatriots are transfixed although he’s hardly Elvis.
Saturday 2 June 2012
A COLUMNIST (COLOUR)
Via Flickr:
I used gel pens to add colour to 'A Columnist', my last upload. Hope you enjoy.
Friday 1 June 2012
A COLUMNIST
ARCHITECTURAL, ANATOMICAL, AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL (AS ALWAYS)... WHEN I DRAW, I CONNECT WITH INNER PEACE AND FEEL SEDUCED BY THE SELF-ABSORPTION SO FAMILIAR WITH THIS DISCIPLINE. MY WORK FEELS EFFORTLESS AND THERAPEUTIC, MY UNCONSCIOUS IS IN THE DRIVING SEAT; CONSCIOUSLY I FEEL MEDITATIVE AND RELAXED, SOMETIMES VIEWING RECENT AND OLD MEMORIES IN MY MENTAL CINEMA, SELF-ANALYSING AND RELINQUISHING NEGATIVE EMOTIONS IN THE PROCESS... IT WORKS FOR ME!
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