Friday, 28 June 2013
It should be the other way round, he thought, fond of observing irony.
Behind closed doors, the asthmatic snores thunderously each night.
His short-sighted neighbour, with unimpaired hearing, dreads this noise; the sound he abhors.
Unable to sleep through the appalling racket at night, he catches up the next day.
He wonders who’ll notice he’s not around in the mornings; people might think he’s away.
Nobody cares, but everyone stares as the astigmatic, carrying a placard, comes downstairs.
The placard reads:
I’M ALL RIGHT. I JUST CAN’T GET ANY SLEEP AT NIGHT!
The asthmatic aggravator passed him on the stairs and read the sign.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he wheezes. ‘I hope you are fine.’
The man with poor vision nodded his thanks.
He hoped his neighbour would take the hint.
Then, they both went back to their rooms.
It was time for their daily wanks.
With a pen, insular on the peninsula, the solitary stationer that was is virtually stationary.
Still, he manages to reflect on his successful career, knocking out pens and paper and similar gear.
Now, with failing eyesight, he spends his days looking back.
Subsequently, it all becomes clear.
When his biro runs out, he runs out into the sea,
And wonders why Virginia Woolf did the same thing,
As, drowning, he takes a last pee.
Friday, 14 June 2013
Recent work, disappointingly scanned (I am dissatisfied with the colour reproduction). The blonde is hidden under shapes and designs that mirror/symbolise the distortions of my memories: yes, she is a figure from my (distant) past.
She never gets what she wants.
Her days are mundane and vacuous,
She feels unfulfilled and empty.
Ms Cavity, as she likes to be addressed,
Is a spinster and often gets depressed,
Wondering how different her life might have been,
Each night as she gets undressed.
She’s always worked for a living,
Her jobs being a means to an end,
And although she’s always worn a smile,
She’s never made a friend.
Her existence is bare survival,
Her loneliness is hell,
She’d say she constantly feels worthless,
If she had anyone she could tell.
Blooming cotton—her eyes on,
Stranded at a distance,
Fred’s talk of threads
Are words she can easily follow.
She is a material witness
To the fact that Fred is hollow,
The cotton has him reeling,
Yet she cannot share his feeling.
A memory of cotton mills fills her mind,
Fred needles her but she knows he’s kind,
It was a darn strange thing,
She thinks perhaps Fred’s blind.
He used to have her in stitches,
As a jovial, plump boy in britches.
Now he never makes her smile,
Instead, about him she bitches.
Fred gasps loudly—a sudden stitch in his side,
Her aloofness is something he’s noticed and long denied,
And specifically now ignores out of pride,
Embarrassed enough, for the moment because he has cried.
Saturday, 1 June 2013
A self-portrait, of sorts, as I 'look back' on the scene I have just drawn.
Since 1994, I have filled notepads with my diaries, poetry, lists, ideas, jokes, dreams, plans, comedy sketches, planned novels, short stories, dark vignettes, doodles and (like here) drawings (I hate large blank spaces on pages). Currently, I am on notepad number 66.