NAROLC'S WORLD

ELK vs ELM

2012-02-11T06:11:00.001+01:00

ELK vs ELM, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
From page 12, notepad #65 (current), I'm uploading a drawing I'm happy with. I intend exploring motifs from this image in future work. These notepads are explained in the description of my last upload:
www.flickr.com/photos/narolc/6789040467/in/photostream

ELK vs. ELM (Poetic comparative analysis to dispel confusion.)

2012-02-11T05:32:00.000+01:00

A deer will fear what it can hear, but its hearing is very good.
An elk is a type of deer, but elm is a type of wood.

An elk’s antlers can resemble the branches of a tree, but the differences between the two are
plain to see.
The branches of a tree can sway in a breeze, while antlers rely on their hosts for movement,
for example when an elk flees!
Branches are often covered with leaves, sometimes they bear fruit.
Antlers are not adorned by foliage, although they still look cute.

Two things they do have in common: both are deaf and mute.
Of course both can make sounds, but there are no grounds for crediting either with the power
of speech.
It would be as daft to ascribe a conscience to a lowly, parasitic leech.

Elks and elms are as different as whelks and helms; just because two words are similar
doesn’t mean they are.
No, to confuse the two is a stupid thing to do and it’s an avoidable mistake if you do as I here
urge you.

Conceivably, elks and elms might co-exist in the same park, but if you think this makes them
the same it’s a shame—you’re in the dark!
It’s like assuming a football and a bicycle that are in the same place are interchangeable,
which they’re not!

People propagating this misnomer are talking rot, which is something trees have sometimes
got along with the odd knot.
Elks and other deer do not decay in this way until they die, of course, and then they
decompose, which is post-mortem normalcy as everyone knows.

Why not liken dogs to trees, which frees deer from the erroneous comparison?
After all—a fool might say—both have barks and, like the elks and elms earlier, are seen
together in parks!
Obviously the sap who believes this is barking up the wrong tree, as, if you examine the
example below, you shall see.

You can ‘fell’ a tree and a deer can ‘fall’, but this doesn’t make them the same thing at all!
If a tree fell on a deer it would make it disappear, but this could never happen in reverse.

Deer getting the Disney treatment resulted in the film Bambi.
Could a feature-length cartoon about elm trees be as namby-pamby?
And, would anyone go to the cinema to see a tree in the earth slowly grow?
Perhaps we’ll never know.

JIMMY SAVILE ROW

2012-01-30T14:16:00.001+01:00

JIMMY SAVILE ROW, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
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.

‘ARACH ‘N’ ID’

2012-01-29T12:18:00.000+01:00

‘Arach ‘n’ Id’—reads the signpost outside the Freudian pub,
Spiderman’s favourite.
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!

WORMHOLES

2012-01-27T22:57:00.001+01:00

WORMHOLES, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Drawing with red, black and blue pens on paper. Approx. size: (H) 7.5 inches x 6 inches (W).

RAYMOND CHANDLER'S EARS

2011-12-30T15:32:00.000+01:00

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.

EQUINE LIMB DISTORTIONS FAZE THE JESTER

2011-12-22T21:10:00.001+01:00

EQUINE LIMB DISTORTIONS FAZE THE JESTER, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

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.

TEN YEARS

2011-12-21T15:40:00.001+01:00

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…

'WHAT'S MY NAME?'

2011-12-10T19:26:00.001+01:00

'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.

OPPOSING FORCES

2011-12-09T20:33:00.000+01:00

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…

BUDDHA PEST

2011-12-06T21:14:00.000+01:00

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.’

MY LIFE by AVERAGE ME

2011-11-24T19:38:00.000+01:00

I’m an average middle-class, middle-aged woman.

I do courses in reiki; no one can make me believe New Age creeds business greed’s responsible, in part, for the drainage of my income.

My grown up children, Zak and Zoe, both got degrees from minor universities,

But economic adversity’s the reason they are unemployed.

Zoe is married to a website designer, Zak just split up with a girl called Chloe.

Zoe has twin girls and an autistic son; it’s fashionable these days for families to have one.

I divorced from my ex-, Digory, five years ago.

Sometimes I have casual sex and sometimes I feel low.

I’ve joined lots of groups but don’t always go.

I like courses and workshops that foster ongoing processes of internal navigation,

As I continue on my journey to find myself.

I find each day has a precious moment of self-discovery, which I record in a notebook.

I share these personal insights at my feminist mentoring sessions on Wednesdays.

I have good friends and we share the same interests and outlook on life.

We do voluntary work in the women’s shelter, which I find most rewarding.

Some of the terrible, shocking things that other women have gone through are worth recording.

Rapes and beatings are commonplace experiences at the shelter’s meetings.

I feel I owe these less fortunate women my empathy and support—ALL men are rapists, but luckily I haven’t been caught.

I try to help them to not feel they are victims, which is terribly important.

Or so I’ve been taught.

Women must refuse to be intimidated by men, only then can we be free and all my friends agree.

We are all strong individuals, my friends and I.

Some men find that intimidating and I can see why.

That explains their hostility.

Lately, Zak has been feeling depressed and begun talking to himself.

I’m slightly anxious about his mental health.

My friend, Abscess, blames his flat’s feng shui, so I suggested to him making some changes over a bowl of chop suey.

Avoiding my eyes, he mumbled incoherently through his straggly beard.

It was very weird and the flat stank to high heaven.

But Abscess says it’s a chakra realignment issue and I’ve known her since I was seven.

Atleast Zoe is happy, but Colin, her husband, lets her do too much.

He uses her like a servant, a seminal spittoon and for a crutch.

But, like me, she’s a very strong woman and I know—when she keeps in touch—she’s not exactly being oppressed as such.

Too weak to be a tyrant, Colin is an emotional sponge instead.

It might work with Zoe, but he can’t get inside my head.

Which explains why, when we meet, his face reveals his dread.

Abscess thinks he’s an emotional leech with bipolar affective disorder,

She told me on the beach the other day when, I’m afraid, I bored her.

She hugged me tight in her strong, tattooed arms, telling me it was alright as I cried on her supportive shoulder.

‘Don’t be sore with me, Abscess,’ I pleaded. ‘All this stress is making me feel so much older.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she insisted. Then, she said, ‘I’m chilly.’

It was true it had got colder.

We shared a bottle of vodka in her flat and she gave me a tarot reading after that.

She’s well suited to reading the cards, but I can’t remember what she said.

I know it made me feel much better and we ended up in bed!

NEW DRAWING, STAGE ONE

2011-11-14T16:13:00.001+01:00

NEW DRAWING, STAGE ONE, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Colour to be added. Watch this space.

THE END IS NIGH

2011-10-30T13:48:00.000+01:00

The man holding a sign proclaiming: THE END IS NIGH stands in a puddle with holes in his shoes. A dog cocks its leg up to pee over his frayed trousers as passing youths jeer and spit at him. Then, it starts raining torrentially.
Trudging home, soaking wet, he trips and falls losing his wallet. Without noticing, he gets up; and a speeding car runs him down throwing him over its bonnet. He limps heavily, bleeding internally, somehow managing to stagger off.
Fire engines are in his street—his house is burning down! His wife and children are burned alive before the fire brigade can save them.
‘We’re deeply sorry for your loss, sir.’ A senior fire officer quietly tells him.
‘Oh, well,’ he shrugs. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’

WELL-KNEADED IN THE COMMUNITY

2011-10-29T16:21:00.002+02:00

WELL-KNEADED IN THE COMMUNITY, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
In the foreground, I have incorporated a medieval scene of people tending the sick and elaborated upon this theme with inspiration from a pun based on our all too human need of a sense of belonging. Have fun!
http://www.narolc.blogspot.com/

IT'S ALL IN HAND

2011-10-25T19:25:00.001+02:00

IT'S ALL IN HAND, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
My very latest picture.

DEAD SIRTE

2011-10-22T20:23:00.003+02:00

While the exact circumstances surrounding the death of Muammar Gaddafi remain unclear, the figurative queue for kudos formed by those claiming responsibility reflects poorly on our contemporary morals. Once again, a toppled tyrant becomes a trophy corpse for the winning side. As farcically as this resembles the contrived denouement of a Hollywood blockbuster, it atrociously exposes the weaker side of human nature.

Those who would normally express compassion for people suffering through natural disasters and in war zones, appear to demonstrate the conviction that certain figures deserve no pity. Strikingly, these are seldom the same people whose lives were directly impacted by whichever deceased oppressor is the current focus of media saturation. Reacting to the news the general public in the US and the UK reveal a knee-jerk response that is both automatic and unthinking, and almost Pavlovian. This reaction suggests—in the public consciousness—acceptance of the exaggerated significance of symbols in place of an understanding of what they represent.

Gaddafi, along with Saddam Hussein and all the preceding generations of despots including Idi Amin, Pol Pot and ultimately Stalin and Hitler, have become enduring symbols of (and synonymous with) evil. Their well-publicised notoriety has made these wicked people into monsters who, in the minds of most people, personify evil. The most monstrous aspect of this aggrandisement of symbols is one little recognised: the mental paralysis inflicted on those who accept and perpetuate it. When people fixate on individuals they perceive as manifestations of evil, they unconsciously forfeit their personal responsibility to (recognise and) oppose evil in all its forms. In doing so, they accept the subtly peddled misnomer that armies beyond their control have the only relevant battles in hand.

Few people would attempt to defend men like Gaddafi, who was clearly capable of committing atrocities. To revel in the removal of figures like him—celebrating with childlike tunnel vision the slaying of yet another dragon—appeals to our collective sense of justice. A naive feeling follows; a connection with the moral upbringing of our past, when we were taught that bullies can be overcome if we stand up to them. This may well be true, but the trouble is that contemporary bullies are the most powerful people on earth. They are sophisticated and ruthless masters of disguise, adept at misdirection.

WORK IN PROGRESS 3

2011-10-22T17:25:00.000+02:00

WORK IN PROGRESS 3, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
This picture is now complete so I shouldn't really refer to it as a work in progress. However, it relates to recent previous uploads (to Flickr) that are sequentially numbered. I welcome any suggestions for a title. Any ideas?

THE SAD COUPLE

2011-10-21T19:01:00.000+02:00

Foretold, told four times, a man is given sufficient warning about the imminence of morning,

Yet—up at the crack of dawn—he remains in awe,

Oblivious, despite being told the score,

He’s none the wiser for his memory’s poor.

Serrated edges grated wedges propping open doors,

Out of which pop whores,

They display their price lists and do their chores,

It’s the sort of thing his wife abhors,

She rushes round slamming doors.

She screams her reproach as his head focuses on the sunrise,

The unbelievable source of his recent surprise,

He’s play-acting to disguise his guilt is his wife’s surmise.

Later, inspired by a truculent waiter, she repeatedly orders rounds of cucumber sandwiches she refuses to eat,

Momentarily, it makes her life complete,

But the next day is a repeat of the complete nonsense she feels is her lot,

She wakes with her nose blocked with snot.

She has to work, she groans climbing into the car she says she needs,

She has to be so strong because she’s surrounded by weeds.

At work, she spreads her germs and ill feeling,

Half of her subordinates are cowering, the other half are reeling,

As her congested, venomous tirades upbraids both the innocent and the slow,

All day long until it’s time to go.

Lo—at home her cretin spouse, still in the house, is transfixed by the sunset,

Fuelled by a sense of her martyrdom, her wrath, she decides, he will not forget,

She clubs his skull with cucumbers soaked in various fluids—endorsed in a best selling book by feminist Druids.

As the stunning sunset fades, she wades in so he’s doubly stunned,

Resenting every pleasure he’s had that she feels she’s had to fund.

In a stupor on the floor, he cannot take any more,

Just as she runs out of cucumbers from her usually ample store,

In an alcove adorned with pentagrams above the kitchen floor,

Where, on her knees, she sees processions of oppressed women suffering throughout time,

While she fervently prays to female deities she invents with names that always rhyme.

Her husband is a sexist parasite; she knows that is his crime.

Stabbing Action Man figures with needles, she longs for occult powers she equates with voodoo.

She comforts herself at the reading groups she forms,

Reciting Germaine Greer and Kate Millet, fondling her pierced nipples, then she nibbles a lamb fillet.

Of course her friends support her, they exhort her to leave her irredeemable husband,

They urge her to join their lottery funded lesbian kibbutz,

And she often wonders why she doesn’t.

But then, she knows, he would assume he’d won,

And make it awkward for her to see Farley, their son.

This eight-year-old product of their unhappy union was her pride and joy,

Being a trendily afflicted—with Asperger’s—introverted boy,

He rarely spoke, would often choke and collected bags of snails,

He wet his pants and worse, frightened his teachers and made them curse,

But, for her, he was a blessing—like a living holy sign,

She only had to look at him and everything was fine,

Because in him she saw a spark she knew was quite divine.

Battered unconscious with cucumbers, her husband slumbers on the bedroom floor,

He dreams of custard creams on silver trays,

Proffered by professionals whose profession was anticipating his pleasure,

Every moment of the dream, for him, was a moment to treasure,

For in his dream he’s a man of leisure,

Dropping in on smiling friends, he lends his time to needy virgins,

Eating and drinking as and when he pleases,

He wheezes in the backs of chauffeur driven limos exhaling expensive cigars,

Stopping for cocktail parties thrown in his honour in all of his favourite bars.

He floats on lilos in heated pools, surrounded by admirers he elegantly schools,

His eloquent instructions elicit their drools,

He made his fortune out of educating fools,

His self-help series provides the world with indispensable tools.

Gurus seek his guidance, he writes speeches for the Dalai Lama,

His words and actions are globally revered,

Even in the press, his reputation’s never been smeared:

Now, that is, his consciousness has disappeared.

But in reality, hate lies in wait.

His wife always gets him to swallow her bait.

If he had a friend in whom he could confide,

He’d admit he’d sometimes considered suicide.

But then, his wife would think that she had won,

His funeral, for her and her feminist mates, would be a source of fun,

Besides, he’d never again see his son and that would mean… No more snails!

And with this thought, his weary heart fails

(Leaving me free to tell other tales—Julian Cloran.)

TEASING MURPHY

2011-10-20T21:19:00.001+02:00

TEASING MURPHY a video by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
While on holiday in Mojacar, Spain recently, I couldn't help blowing in Murphy dog's ear. He's a beautiful dog who belongs to my good friends and neighbours, with whom I stayed.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE DOLPHIN'S SHRINE

2011-10-18T17:22:00.001+02:00

THE DOLPHIN'S SHRINE, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

WORK IN PROGRESS 2

2011-10-12T18:24:00.001+02:00

WORK IN PROGRESS 2, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Following on from my last upload to Flickr. The line stage is complete, colour to be added. Watch this space.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE SAILOR AND THE CARD PLAYER

2011-10-09T21:52:00.000+02:00

A sailor was drinking with a card player with a skin complaint.

The player’s hands looked sore and blistered, his fingers swollen with peeling skin and bloated knuckles.

‘You’ll be alright, mate,’ the sailor, making light of it, chuckles. ‘Only,’ he frowns at the player’s fingers, ‘how do you think you got it?’

‘I’ll tell you what it wasn’t,’ the player, beginning to explain, frowns. ‘It wasn’t because I shook hands with clowns or wiped them on my dressing gowns…’

The sailor swallowed his drink and after a lengthy pause is on the brink of repeating his question.

But, raising his hands, the player understands.

He decides to put the sailor out of his misery.

‘The plain fact is that contaminated cards are the source of my affliction. I don’t know if they were poisonous or if I am allergic to that specific brand, but I’ll never play with them again!’

‘Fair enough,’ the sailor nods.

‘I’ll tell you this…’ In the air, the player’s podgy finger prods. ‘I won’t touch that pack again, unless I lose my brain, I’m telling you. I’m suffering so badly, I really am in pain!’

The sailor nodded sagely, but he thought his companion was nuts.

‘I’ve made up my mind,’ resumed the player. ‘No ifs, no buts, I’ll not go near those infernal cards ever again!’

‘Well that’s fair enough,’ said the sailor after an awkward silence. ‘One thing’s for sure, mind, this would never have happened to you if you’d been playing cards on board my ship.’

‘Oh, why?’

‘’Cos we always swab the decks, mate,’ the sailor guffawed. ‘We always swab the decks!’

WORK IN PROGRESS... WATCH THIS SPACE!

2011-10-09T07:43:00.001+02:00

WORK IN PROGRESS... WATCH THIS SPACE!, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
I've had a bit of break from Flickr (busy writing poetry, surreal vignettes and, off and on, struggling with a novel) but I'm back here with a work in progress. I will upload the finished article along with other visual pieces I'm currently working on.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

SWEATING IT OUT

2011-09-29T20:14:00.000+02:00

Someone is sweating over money inside a cathedral.

As one perspires, purse spires inspire the supernatural manifestation of a pun made literal.

A moneybag with bags of room for a steeple to protrude;

Vast, phallic and symbolically rude,

In the past, one’s imagination had been quite crude.

So how did this surreal monstrosity suddenly intrude with the fused elements of reality with which it was imbued?

One counts the days, for there are only seven,

But then again—now, there are eleven!

In a place of God, you appeal to heaven.

Only to find perfume in a monstrous bottle before you—truly heaven scent.

If you repent, you think, the strange happenings might relent.

You regret your wasteful ways, the money squandered and time misspent.

As Daliesque melting clocks ooze from every single vent.

‘Only time will tell,’ says a clock face, as human as it is horological.

Your heart is racing on a track formed out of pews,

With various other human organs, this is too much!

You vent your spleen; literally, smothering melting clocks that make you turn green.

As a colour and quite a pleasant hue,

You feel like a shady character and wonder what to do.

Abruptly, a corrupt umbrella salesman pushes his rain-protective wares on you.

Fair weather friends assemble in an insincerely sympathetic horde.

Despite your rising terror, you try hard to look bored,

Drills give thrills to spectating sadists as they penetrate your pores,

Bleeding and screaming, painfully aware of your flaws,

You empathise with victims and casualties of wars.

At this stage, in agony and rage, you visualise theatres of war,

Operating theatres where surgeons butcher Shakespeare.

It occurs to you that King Lear might appear,

Well more Fool you.

Scenarios unfold, plays play out with tales untold,

That transform themselves into silk that, once, you spun, now hold.

You follow the thread with fascination and dread,

The taste of cotton in your mouth is seen by material witnesses—

Crumpled individuals publicly washing their dirty linen,

Coming clean, expressing outrage over the obscene,

An odd scene develops involving money laundering,

As gangsters compete with hypocrites in the immorality stakes.

SCABIES HURST

2011-09-27T18:39:00.000+02:00

SCABIES HURST

SEA SHANTIES Vol. 19

The phenomenal new album

I. D. Mur, music critic for Narolc’s World, writes:

‘Sea Shanties Vol. 19’ is the new album from old salt, Scabies Hurst. It contains twelve new songs including ‘A Mermaid Was My Muse’, ‘Chasing The Horizon’ and ‘Shipwrecked in Hull.’

Scabies lifelong experience of sailing the seven seas stands him in good stead, providing the material for his latest collection of songs. His distinctive style of warbling (Scabies pioneered the ‘gargling’ technique with which he became synonymous) coupled with a lyrical inventiveness associated more with his hardcore musical contemporaries, ensures this selection of modern-day sea shanties satisfies the listener with a pleasant experience.

Scabies, who was born off the Norwegian coast in the 1950s, was descended from a maritime background. He claims his great-great-grandfather was Lord Nelson’s glove maker (once). His profound fondness for the ocean, as reflected in his music, has, he says, kept him afloat throughout difficult times. In 1998, Scabies lost his fourth wife, Agnetha, on a shopping trip in Croydon. Scabies’ reaction to the tragedy was to vow never to set foot on dry land again. True to his word, he walks on rain-soaked pavements only and carries a bucket of water everywhere he goes to wet the surfaces he uses as paths.

This album is Scabies’ nineteenth recording on the ‘Sound Waves’ label. But according to Scabies he has no thoughts of retiring, recently he announced his forthcoming tour of the Hebrides.

Since the death of his seventh wife, Tulisa, in 2009, Scabies has been romantically linked with a number of women, but denies he plans taking a further walk down the aisle with anyone in the immediate future.

‘Sea Shanties Vol. 19’ is available to download now, so if you’ve half a mind to buy it—that’s all you need.

THE MAN DREAMING IN BED

2011-09-04T17:13:00.001+02:00

THE MAN DREAMING IN BED, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
A recent drawing.

To read a 'disturbed' fan's account of their experiences with the celebrities they idolise, please follow the link below to my blog, Narolc's World:

narolc.blogspot.com/2011/09/disturbed-fan.html

THE DISTURBED FAN

2011-09-02T22:23:00.000+02:00

I sent Geoff Capes grapes, but did he say, ‘Thanks a bunch’?

He did not.

Perhaps he forgot or perhaps he’d already eaten his lunch.

I created a hoax to coax a reply from Robbie Williams,

Sending mocked-up photographs of him with Liza Minelli in a restaurant to the tabloid press,

But instead of the ‘MINELLI-YUM’ headlines I expected,

My press release was ignored and I felt quite dejected.

I told Madonna I was mad on ’er, which I hoped would make her smile,

I’m still awaiting her response and I’ve been waiting for a while.

I wrote to Donald Trump and pointed out that his surname, in US English, is slang for a fart,

But if he got wind of my joke, he ignored it the rude bloke.

I tried to enhance John Travolta’s style of dance with some moves of my own,

Getting his reaction to my You Tube film was like getting blood from a stone.

Macaulay Culkin must be sulking,

Despite my praise for all of his films, he too leaves me alone.

As for Lulu and the guy in Star Trek who played Lieutenant Sulu,

I might as well have written to them in Ancient Greek or Zulu.

I like the stars, why can’t they see it really hurts that they don’t like me?

It’s fans like me, who make them the people they are,

While they swan about in limos, I can’t afford a car.

I don’t know why I’m bothering, but I’m going to send Pamela Anderson my hand-knitted, scented bra.

THE LUMINOUS SLUG VEHICLE, LEFT

2011-09-02T14:48:00.001+02:00

THE LUMINOUS SLUG VEHICLE, LEFT, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
This piece glows in the dark. A giant slug is attached to a toy hovercraft.
For my latest blog posting, which attempts to answer the age old question what's in a name, please follow the link below.
narolc.blogspot.com/2011/08/whats-in-name.html

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

2011-08-30T18:31:00.000+02:00

Barry Cade was an obstructive bloke, which was no joke.

Saul Bellow, however, wasn’t known as a noisy fellow,

Anymore than a woman called Serena is necessarily mellow.

So what’s in a name?

No two answers will be the same.

‘So and so by name, such and such by nature…’

Is an expression that generalises the occasional nature of names.

Naming and shaming highlights one of the drawbacks of names—

Making readily identifiable those who are to blame.

The use of names has altered due to society’s widespread political correctness,

Making their use more complex like a series of social games.

You can’t call a spade a spade these days unless you want to dig your own grave,

Unless you’re referring to playing cards and say it with a poker face.

If you licked a sweetshop it would leave a bitter aftertaste, which is hard to swallow.

Language, supposedly, contains numerous helpful symbols aiding human communication.

Yet it’s a sad fact that from all the world’s languages only two symbols are universally understood: the £ and the $.

These days, as a general rule, labels are unacceptable.

Apart from when they’re on a shirt’s collar.

A ‘true’ collarbone would increase the weight of certain items of clothing,

Making consumers shirty, perhaps we’d see their loathing.

SIGMUND FREUD AND THE WOMAN WHO LIVED IN HER FRIDGE

2011-08-23T20:08:00.000+02:00

When Sigmund Freud was deployed to psychoanalyse a woman living in her fridge, he was unsurprised by her frosty reception.

Or her clumsy attempts at being elusive with orchestrated deception.

The woman was called Anna, which is a common name.

Adding Anna to his list, the great analyst smiled in anticipation of the predictability of her game.

‘You’re not the first woman I have met who lives in their fridge, you know.’ Said Sigmund. ‘Oh no, indeed, a woman called Brigid who, as it turned out, was frigid, did exactly the same.’

‘Was she cured?’ Anna asked after a brief sulk.

‘Ach, no,’ Freud shook his head. ‘She was completely unprocessed. There was some cured ham sharing the fridge with her but I didn’t want to do anything to reinforce her idea that her choice of living quarters was appropriate.’

‘I overheat,’ Anna abruptly explained. ‘The fridge cools me down, lowers my temperature and helps me feel comfortable.’

‘Indeed?’ Freud nodded smugly, delighted with how rapidly she’d thawed.

Nevertheless, her thinking, as indicated by her behaviour, was flawed.

‘You know, Doctor,’ she said coldly. ‘When things are frozen they don’t mind being ignored!’

‘You mean like corpses, perhaps?’ Freud fumbled. Asking the question with his eyebrows more than his mouth as his words were barely mumbled.

‘No, Herr Doctor, I don’t mean the dead. I say that ice is indifferent. You can like it or lump it.’

‘Ice?’ Hissed Freud. ‘You refer to a mass of frozen water. It is no more and no less! Your meaning is unclear to me, Anna, I must confess.’

Anna’s expression showed that she couldn’t care less.

She was a cold-hearted woman, the doctor knew.

Why, even her skin was distinctly blue.

‘Well.’ Sighed Sigmund. ‘You may as well continue to inhabit your fridge. If that’s what you want to do.’

THE SAINT AND THE SICK

2011-08-22T21:45:00.001+02:00

THE SAINT AND THE SICK, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage and dtawing in gel pens on paper.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

COLOUR ENERGY FIELD

2011-08-21T10:49:00.001+02:00

COLOUR ENERGY FIELD, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage and drawing in gel pens on paper. The triangular shape of the composition was arrived at naturally when it was completed and cropped accordingly.

My latest blog posting is as pure a piece of surrealist writing as I've ever produced. Loosely revolving around the theme of wheels I use the flow in the wordplay to create a nonsensical poetic story. Please follow the link below if you wish to check it out.

narolc.blogspot.com/2011/08/spokes-spoken-of.html?zx=b39f...

SPOKES SPOKEN OF

2011-08-20T22:53:00.000+02:00

If you tire* of wheel-spoken people just tread carefully around them.

There’s no point in running them down, if they’ve already been run over.

Those who spoke well of outspoken blokes jokes feel wheel spokes in their tactile search for symmetry.

Spokes in wells tells of strokes that fell folks,

Making them drop wood spikes that spite a place for water.

A daughter caught her mother thirsting for her lover,

So she threw her down a well knowing full well she would not recover.

To not speak ill of the dead, to always think well of a shed,

Are equally worthy things to keep inside a healthy head.

For whom the bell tolls, trolls going like the clappers.

Tolls charged for rolls barged down canals channels funds into astronomical budgets,

But nothing like NASA’s.

*Tire is the American spelling of tyre.

THE DOUBLE DECKER CAR, FRONT

2011-08-16T17:21:00.001+02:00

THE DOUBLE DECKER CAR, FRONT, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
A toy car made from recycled materials.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE PRESS AND THE PUBLIC

2011-08-15T20:34:00.000+02:00

Where do pint-sized stars meet gritty Glaswegians?

In tabloid articles where you will also find Antipodean actresses mixing with media moguls and formulaic alliteration to excess.

The success of the press depends on the public who, in the past, believed the world was flat.

If shit smells it can’t be shit, even when it smells and when a celebrity kisses and tells in newspapers their circulation swells.

The public’s preference for titillation over information makes a heavyweight broadsheet seem an elitist source of reference.

Making vapid fools drool’s the popular press’s game.

When greedy, unscrupulous editors are apportioned blame for their underhand activities, do their journals’ readers feel no shame?

No sense of complicity or feeling of guilt?

For creating the demand their rags supplied?

For having the taste for the bilge from the monsters their appetites built?

Is their surprised indignation at corruption in the media plausible or genuine?

Was their astonishment over MPs fiddling their expenses for real?

Or is the public outrage seen merely orchestrated—as their end of the deal?

I don’t understand how most people think, nor see how they must feel.

But it seems they must be playing a game with an inevitable outcome that’s always the same.

The ignorant, mentally lazy pursuants of sensation are repulsive, self-indulgent wastes of space clogging up the nation,

Worshipping footballers and looking to celebrities for inspiration.

Their lowbrow taste saturates our culture with the facile, the pedestrian and the mediocre—what a choker!

The suffocating volume of pap drip-fed to prevalent cretins spoils life in general,

Reducing everything to marketing ploys and supplying materialist morons with hi-tech toys.

THE BRUSH CAR, LEFT

2011-08-12T21:53:00.001+02:00

THE BRUSH CAR, LEFT, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
A toy car made from recycled materials.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE BRUSH CAR, RIGHT

2011-08-12T20:54:00.001+02:00

THE BRUSH CAR, RIGHT, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
A toy car made from recycled materials.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE BRUSH CAR, FRONT

2011-08-10T19:01:00.001+02:00

THE BRUSH CAR, FRONT, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Toy car made from recycled materials.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

ANATOMICAL ARCHITECTURE

2011-08-07T14:00:00.001+02:00

ANATOMICAL ARCHITECTURE, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
A very recent drawing, which I worked on during breaks from working on my novel. Ink on (lined) notepad paper. Approx. size: Height: 20 cm. Width: 13 cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE GREEN TRUCK, RIGHT

2011-08-06T10:11:00.001+02:00

THE GREEN TRUCK, RIGHT, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
THE GREEN TRUCK

Switches, bitches pushing buttons, mutton’s dressed as lamb along with the framework of a pram.
A sham, a clam, a shamrock—a real rock, verdant structures like leaves deceives the eye.
One wonders why the door’s concealed there?
Green plastic, elastic globules of PVA medium attire brushes with transparent blobs so it bobs up and down when pushed by the hand of a child wearing a frown.
Drown in implication, the imprecation decipherable among symbolic elements, transistors and tiny batteries; scatter knees as you kneel to examine a vehicle that’s missing some wheels!
It feels deals are done behind your mind, you can’t find the words to explain it—there’s something elusive in the effusive that you must needs remind yourself about, which is a bind.
Its’ juxtaposed fluorescent towers’ silhouettes empowers some, others it plants seeds inside, then it germinates and flowers.

www.narolc.blogspot.com

HOLOCAUST DENIAL

2011-08-05T19:08:00.000+02:00

(While) Holocaust denial is hollow, coarse and vile,

It’s an extremist assertion, both moronic and juvenile…

‘Jew the Nile,’ the Pharaoh decreed,

So Jews were plunged in the Egyptian river,

Some would drown, while others emerged with a shiver.

Historically, a persecuted race it is a disgrace to deny the scale of Jewish suffering.

However, I for one find the conveyor belt of Hollywood schmaltz—

Driven by Zionist interests, saturating the global media—

Is an unbearably harsh form of revenge.

THE TALL TRUCK (RIGHT)

2011-08-04T18:01:00.001+02:00

THE TALL TRUCK (RIGHT), a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
A toy truck (with no back wheels) made from recycled materials. This side shows collage culled from photographs of my old pintings, which I have used to decorative effect.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE TALL TRUCK (LEFT)

2011-08-03T18:53:00.001+02:00

THE TALL TRUCK (LEFT), a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
A toy truck (with no back wheels) made from recycled materials.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE BLUE MARBLE TRUCK (RIGHT)

2011-08-02T21:21:00.001+02:00

THE BLUE MARBLE TRUCK (RIGHT), a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Toy truck made from recycled materials.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

YACHTS OF DISSIDENCE

2011-08-01T20:31:00.001+02:00

YACHTS OF DISSIDENCE, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
A recent drawing.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

EUCLID, EINSTEIN, NEWTON, BUDDHA AND THOR

2011-07-30T11:13:00.000+02:00

Euclidean geometry is hard to beat,

It’s so direct, so god damned neat.

Euclid made straight lines logical and complete.

When Einstein revolutionised our thoughts on gravity,

People weren’t immediately attracted to his ideas.

They were too fixated with apples falling on Newton’s head it appears.

Still, in a short period of time—relatively speaking,

Einstein’s equations were proven sublime.

Buddha was supposed to be bright,

But he wasn’t fascinated by the nature of light,

And when he sat beneath a tree,

He made no scientific discovery.

It’s claimed he became enlightened,

Yet he could have just been frightened—

Too scared to admit that he’d wasted his time,

Been a lazy shit.

When Archimedes took a bath,

(We’re not supposed to laugh)

He exclaimed: ‘Eureka!’

Then went on to make a splash.

Perhaps, instead, ‘Excreta,’ was what he said,

After having a shit in the water—

Coming up with a fluid displacement theory,

Feeling that he oughta.

Trees and human destiny have often been entwined.

Take the biblical account in the Old Testament that we find,

Of the Garden of Eden—a latter-day Sweden—inhabited by Adam and Eve.

Do you believe there actually was a tree of knowledge?

If so, there was no need to go to school and then on to college.

Judaism is steeped in the Cabbala (or the Tree of Life),

A branch of mystical wisdom that now attracts Hollywood stars,

Pop idols and other famous cultural icons.

No one can accurately pinpoint the exact origins of religious paradigms,

But most faiths, with or without tree symbology, are rooted in fear.

The Norse deity, Odin, purportedly spent twelve days living in a tree,

Before falling out and discovering rune stones on the ground,

I don’t believe there were any witnesses around.

Nor do I set much store by myths about Thor,

Although I love the way he travelled by hammer!

Molijnar was the hammer’s name and if Thor threw it at something—

Just like a boomerang—back it came!

LEAVE YOUR CAR BEHIND

2011-07-26T19:26:00.001+02:00

LEAVE YOUR CAR BEHIND, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
A very recent drawing.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

CITY OF WIRES, OVERHEAD

2011-07-24T18:08:00.001+02:00

CITY OF WIRES, OVERHEAD, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
CITY OF WIRES
The city of wires’ liars promulgate paradox and myth in equal measure,
Treasure ephemera frozen in time like lime in geological stratas.
Eras juxtaposed with icons’ eyes regarding their fate, indifference and oblivion.
The presence of spheres queers the pitch-black background found among suggested ruins that emerge from the vestiges of a disposable age.
Rage—rigid, poised aloft plastic pen shafts—daft’s how you feel, like an embarrassed eel next to a meal of acrylic blobs pictures of yobs interrupt and link, then sink between glass, arse and metal, which eventually settle with the unease of a drunken seasickness sufferer.
Adherents to PVA medium hear ads through wires connected to beads, feeds fed to wheels representing deals of a circular nature.
Human nature—exaggeratedly echoed in absurdist architecture, reflecting the futuristic chaos born out of contemporary consumerism.
Towers’ powers shrink and captivate simultaneously along pools of colour on wood you should respect, like trees from which it comes.
Glass, brass and toys, intricately assembled like ploys, neighbouring plastic regions legions of shadows disturb.
The consistently visible function is dysfunction, anarchic equilibrium unmolested by equity or Librium, while narcolepsy inducing mechanisms vie with stimulant incitement units in surreal seascapes drowning ambiguous amphibians.
Encompassing compasses, the city yet lacks direction, but light—direct—shone upon the darkest places and moments, making momentous both the minimal and minutiae.
My ‘newt’ eye sees the scheme of things the city brings,
Things I forgot, relived or dreamed.
I built the city while I slept and when I woke I laughed and screamed.

Dimensions: Height: 29 cm Width: 29 cm Depth: 2 cm. Please check out my stream for alternative views of this piece.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

CITY OF WIRES, FRONT

2011-07-23T16:13:00.001+02:00

CITY OF WIRES, FRONT, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Front view of a complex structure assembled from recycled materials on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 29 cm Width: 29 cm Depth: 2 cm. Starting with a wooden offcut, which I decorate with acrylic paints, PVA medium and collage, I add elements including parts of toys, circuit boards, plastic tubes, wheels, beads, wires, etc until a detailed 'landscape' emerges. I embellish the various elements by painting, adding blobs of PVA medium and wrapping strips of material, dried paint and photographs culled from newspapers and magazines around things. I see all of my 3D work as blueprints for potential large-scale installations that I would love to create in public spaces here in the UK and (hopefully) throughout the world.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

LEGGINGS

2011-07-21T16:29:00.001+02:00

LEGGINGS, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage and paints on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 15 cm Width: 8 cm Depth: 2 cm. The flipside of 'Jars'.
www. narolc. blogspot.com

JARS

2011-07-20T17:35:00.001+02:00

JARS, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage and paints on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 15 cm Width: 8 cm Depth: 2 cm.
www. narolc. blogspot.com

MARSHMALLOWS

2011-07-17T17:08:00.001+02:00

MARSHMALLOWS, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Acrylic paints and collage on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 10 cm Width: 21 cm Depth: 2cm. The 'B' side of 'Boots'.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

BOOTS

2011-07-13T19:52:00.001+02:00

BOOTS, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Acrylic paints and collage on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 10 cm Width: 21 cm Depth: 2cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

TOE TRIANGLE

2011-07-12T16:42:00.001+02:00

TOE TRIANGLE, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Acrylic paints and collage on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 10 cm Width: 21 cm Depth: 2cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

POLLOCK'S THIMBLE REVERSED

2011-07-09T10:55:00.001+02:00

POLLOCK'S THIMBLE REVERSED, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
The 'B' side of Jackson Pollock's thimble. Collage and acrylic paints on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 11 cm Width: 16 cm Depth: 2 cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

JACKSON POLLOCK'S THIMBLE

2011-07-07T20:24:00.001+02:00

JACKSON POLLOCK'S THIMBLE, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Acrylics, PVA medium and collage on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 11 cm Width: 16 cm Depth: 2 cm.

For my whimsical look at contemporary North American life, please follow this link: narolc.blogspot.com/2011/07/us-of-eh.html

US of Eh?

2011-07-07T18:15:00.000+02:00

Larry had known a Harry Zoner, from Arizona, unless this was Larry’s misnomer.

Miss Lay, the prostitute with a tray, served up sex on a plate.

Miss Hap was too clumsy to grant sexual favours and usually too late…

Larry, in a room with mates, ruminates,

Chews the cud with cowboys, now toys with stewing some mud.

Hud the stud was hung like a horse; he was an indolent drunk, ill mannered and coarse.

Cody Walton had joined the police force,

He looked swollen in his uniform but thought he looked swell.

Folk went to Doc Moses when they felt unwell—a quack who prescribed the wrong drugs all the time because he couldn’t spell.

Larry’s first wife, Wanda, had been a conjurer’s assistant,

In a leotard and black tights, she flounced about on stage,

She thrilled Larry with her cleavage, her Southern accent and her age.

She died a year after their wedding of a pickled onion overdose,

Which Larry found tragic and gross.

Next, he married the daughter of an Amish porter,

On the condition that he taught her everything he knew.

Despite how little he subsequently imparted their love soon grew,

Until, one night, she eloped with Morrie Schindler—the amorous Jew.

A bachelor ever since, Larry tries to convince his peers that he doesn’t consort with queers,

After a rumour that started with Larry’s look-alike in a gay bar drinking too many beers,

Spotted by a nosey parker neighbour who frequently—it appears—is a shit stirrer.

Yukio Itsopushi, the Jap who made his cash from crap, beats Larry at backgammon and simple games like snap.

When they meet at the local residents’ club, Yukio seems sarky offering Larry saki, but Larry doesn’t mind.

After all, Yukio being the fatter of the two, Larry can afford to be kind,

Congratulating the overweight Oriental on the pile he’s made out of manure.

Judge Maloney was long retired, but everyone called him Judge,

It was a cosy habit from which they would not budge.

‘Maloney’s Baloney’ was an ill-judged effort by the judge to run a delicatessen,

His poor judgement meant poor Judge.

Folk thought him a fool, but Larry refused to budge,

Anyone can make a mistake—that was his verdict, though maybe he should have given it a trial run.

It was immaterial when Judge killed himself while cleaning his favourite gun.

Larry insisted it was an accident when confronted by Mahoney’s son,

But, later, would hide in his shed to confide—with an odd pride—the widespread belief that it was suicide.

At sixty-three, with an arthritic knee and lumbago, Larry suffers from a coronary.

So we’ll say goodbye to Larry.

LEAVES AND ARTERIES

2011-07-06T17:25:00.001+02:00

LEAVES AND ARTERIES, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Acrylic painting incorporating collage on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 8.5 cm Width: 15 cm Depth: 2 cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

WHEN I SPEAK FREELY…

2011-07-05T20:22:00.000+02:00

When I speak my mind I generally find my reception is far from kind.

Even from those people who profess to be the most open to ‘light’,

Are those also with whom I most often fight.

They recoil from my words and what they represent,

My freedom of speech they then try—for the future—to prevent,

In case, I suppose, their pride will dent.

I’ve been harassed by hypocrites,

Ostracised by ostriches,

Upbraided by upstarts,

Castigated by cretins,

Banned by bigots,

Goaded by the gormless,

Ignored by the ignorant.

These hypocrites, these self-proclaimed seekers of truth,

Ignoring their own advice when faced by truth that isn’t nice,

Scurry away from their discomfort, resembling disturbed lice.

They hide behind clichés that they’re too blind to see,

They’re hiding from everything—including me!

The narrowly open-minded, self-delusional and blinded,

Individuals who form groups in which they cower in troops,

Pay lip service to values they don’t truly value,

They treat recycled creeds like scoops unconsciously—like dupes.

Terrified of leaving their comfort zones,

Their middle-class moans are about politically correct distractions,

From their materialist existences and their obsession with what each other owns.

While frantically worrying about repaying their loans,

They pathetically ponder over Buddhist koans,

The received wisdom appealing to the cowardly crowd,

Exposes their every double standard.

Their amplified fears are disguised yet loud,

Echoed and mirrored by the company they use as a shroud.

Company being an ephemeral denial of loneliness,

That ultimately engulfs everyone nevertheless.

Who does a gang of fools impress?

Can they not see how much they depress?

Their collective ignorance is blatant and grim,

I struggle to believe they can be so dim.

Preaching the ideals they’ve inherited and learned,

Then repetitively paraphrased and then returned,

To its source—the hollow communities that have earned,

My incredulity, my contempt, how I’ve burned…

With my indignation at their risible posturing.

THE RED SKIRT

2011-07-05T16:49:00.001+02:00

THE RED SKIRT, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Acrylic painting incorporating collage on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 8.5 cm Width: 15 cm Depth: 2 cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

SPIDEY TYSON

2011-07-03T09:29:00.001+02:00

SPIDEY TYSON, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Dimensions: Height: 15 cm Width: 20.5 cm Depth: 2 cm. Acrylics and collage on a wooden base.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE SUNSET

2011-06-30T19:36:00.001+02:00

THE SUNSET, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Dimensions: Height: 15 cm Width: 20.5 cm Depth: 2 cm. Acrylics and collage on a wooden base.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

BUMS AND BOBBLES

2011-06-29T17:58:00.001+02:00

BUMS AND BOBBLES, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage and painting using acrylics and PVA medium on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 14.5 cm Width: 20.5 cm Depth: 2cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

PIE IN THE SKY (ABSURDIST CYNICISM)

2011-06-28T21:14:00.000+02:00

It seems that the expression: ‘Pie in the sky’ implies that you have to fly to eat it.

‘Death before dishonour’ seems condemnatory of corpses.

Are we then to assume that graveyards are disreputable places?

‘There’s honour among thieves’ leaves me wondering if Honor Blackman was a prison visitor.

If a giant bends down to pick up a chestnut, does he ‘stoop to conker?’

‘My word is my bond’ merchants don’t take into account that any stupid oaf can take a solemn oath.

‘Use your loaf’ is ridiculous advice for bakers.

If the religious Society of Friends were more ‘green’, they’d be seen as ‘Earth-Quakers!’

Not many people look like bladders, but they still appear to be piss-takers.

THE HORSE'S HEAD

2011-06-27T15:03:00.001+02:00

THE HORSE'S HEAD, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage and painting using acrylics and PVA medium on a wooden base. Dimensions: Height: 20.5 cm Width: 14.5 cm Depth: 2cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

TEARING THROUGH THE SEA

2011-06-24T20:09:00.001+02:00

TEARING THROUGH THE SEA, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage incorporating PVA medium and acrylic paints on a triangular wooden base. DIMENSIONS: Height: 10 cm Width: 21 cm Depth: 2.5 cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

REACHING FOR EGGS

2011-06-23T16:51:00.001+02:00

REACHING FOR EGGS, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage incorporating PVA medium and acrylic paints on a triangular wooden base. DIMENSIONS: Height: 10 cm Width: 21 cm Depth: 2.5 cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

CAT'S EYES

2011-06-22T18:50:00.001+02:00

CAT'S EYES, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage incorporating PVA medium and acrylic paints on a triangular wooden base. DIMENSIONS: Height: 10 cm Width: 21 cm Depth: 2.5 cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

ELEPHANT FRUIT

2011-06-21T18:10:00.001+02:00

ELEPHANT FRUIT, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage with acrylic paints on a wooden base. DIMENSIONS: Height: 14.5 cm Width: 18 cm Depth: 2cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

CAT, FISH, LEGS

2011-06-19T20:10:00.001+02:00

CAT, FISH, LEGS, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage incorporating acrylic paints and PVA medium on a wooden base. DIMENSIONS: Height:18 cm Width: 14.5 cm Depth: 2 cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE GREEN HAND

2011-06-17T20:24:00.001+02:00

THE GREEN HAND, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
The opposite side of 'The Blue Glove', my previous upload. A collage incorporating acrylic paints on a wooden base. DIMENSIONS: Height: 22cm Width: 9cm Depth: 4cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE BLUE GLOVE

2011-06-16T18:08:00.001+02:00

THE BLUE GLOVE, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage and acrylic paints on a wooden base. DIMENSIONS: Height: 22cm Width: 9cm Depth: 4cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

JULIAN CLORAN RECENTLY SHOWED WORK

2011-06-15T18:40:00.000+02:00

JULIAN CLORAN RECENTLY SHOWED WORK, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
The flipside of 'Bagpuss' (my previous upload) turned the other way up! Collage incorporating acrylic paints and PVA medium on a wooden base. DIMENSIONS: Height: 15cm Width: 13.5cm Depth: 2cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

BAGPUSS

2011-06-14T19:50:00.001+02:00

BAGPUSS, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Collage using PVA medium incorporating acrylic paints on a wooden base. I never preconceive work, but analysing this with hindsight, one might conclude that I am alluding to the superiority of Bagpuss over the inverted image of Santa (played by Richard Attenborough). DIMENSIONS: Height: 13.5cm Width: 15cm Depth: 2cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE BLUE TOWER, RIGHT

2011-06-07T20:25:00.001+02:00

THE BLUE TOWER, RIGHT, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Sculpture created on a wooden base out of recycled materials. Dimensions: Height: 27cm Width: 28.5 cm Depth: 14 cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE BLUE TOWER, LEFT

2011-06-07T20:24:00.001+02:00

THE BLUE TOWER, LEFT, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Sculpture created on a wooden base out of recycled materials. Dimensions: Height: 27cm Width: 28.5 cm Depth: 14 cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

THE BLUE TOWER, OVERHEAD

2011-06-06T22:01:00.001+02:00

THE BLUE TOWER, OVERHEAD, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Sculpture created on a wooden base out of recycled materials. Dimensions: Height: 27cm Width: 28.5 cm Depth: 14 cm.
www.narolc.blogspot.com

DOM IS HILARY

2011-05-08T12:36:00.000+02:00

Domiciliary care-worker, Dom is Hilary on his nights off.

Cross-dressing Dominic knows his friends and colleagues would scoff, if they knew about his secret transvestite lifestyle.

They’d call him a drag act, a queen and a queer,

He was none of those things but that’s not how it would appear.

Behind his closed doors, Dominic can’t hear them sneer,

Tottering around in high-heels, necking a beer.

Admiring himself wearing a dress in a full-length mirror,

Dom reflects on his furtive actions.

There must be more like me, he muses, enough for several factions.

He just felt good in women’s clothes,

Freed at last from a costume he loathes.

At work, dressed like a man,

Dom felt uncomfortable and wrong and wan.

Why should it be a guilty pleasure, what he did in his leisure?

One day, a crazed nudist colony broke into Dom’s house and set fire to his entire wardrobe,

‘A COSTUME DRAMA’—the local paper’s headline read,

Above a picture of Dom’s downcast head,

With the firemen, whose rescue had led,

To his discovery, in a nurse’s dress, in his shed!

AWESTRUCK, OAR-STRUCK!

2011-04-10T12:34:00.000+02:00

Struck on the head by an oar, resulted in brain damage for the salesman bore.

Awestruck, he remembered little of his ordeal, but struck back—

Striking oar deals at national exhibitions of rowing implements,

Making his fortune, which is awesome for some oars.

In his leisure, his pleasure involves life jackets and whores,

Perversely, Orson Welles’ movies are things he abhors.

To pull a stroke on him would be dim, despite his damaged brain,

For those who’ve tried have found there’s nothing to gain,

They’re up the creek without a paddle,

Or else they find their lot is just self-inflicted pain.

Meanwhile the wealthy salesman has his very own private-charter plane!

HOLLYWOOD ACTOR MISTAKEN FOR LIBYAN CITY AS UN’S MILITARY ACTION ESCALATES

2011-03-20T14:30:00.000+01:00

Famous Hollywood star, Ben Gazzara, might have fears of becoming a military target if rumours that he has been mistaken for the Libyan city, Benghazi are true. A source close to Mr. Gazzara, now in his eighties, is reported as saying: ‘Ben Gazzara has never even been to Libya, let alone been the site of armed conflict over there. There must be confusion over their similar sounding names—Ben Gazzara (whose career spanned decades, appearing in numerous films as a supporting actor, including the role of a villain in the Patrick Swayze hit, Roadhouse) sounds like Benghazi, but there the resemblance ends!’

Now, the actor—whose career is currently invisible—potentially faces the violent ending of his life in expected air strikes by UN coalition forces. Strikes aimed at ‘liberating’ Libya from Colonel Gadaffi, ‘freeing’ the Libyan people to join the North American Empire and annexe their country to the US.

However, sources close to US military intelligence forces have played down the risks faced by the geriatric actor. In a statement issued anonymously that was made available to Narolc’s World, Gazzara’s possible concerns are dismissed.

‘There is no threat to Mr. Gazzara and any fears for his personal safety are completely groundless,’ the statement reads. ‘Providing, of course, he does not happen to actually be in Libya at a specific time and an exact place when and where action of a military nature (such as a bombing) takes place. But—’ the statement continues, ‘It is our understanding that Mr. Gazzara is a US citizen and that the US is where he resides.’

Anji Noracull,

Foreign Affairs Editor for Narolc’s World.

LETTERBOX

2011-03-19T10:21:00.000+01:00

You can have a letterbox, but not a letter boxer.

There are pillar-boxes and pillars of the community,

While a pillar pugilist does not exist.

It seems certain things go hand-in-glove with other things,

Like the exchange of mundane information that mobile technology brings,

And nuisance calls when the telephone rings.

Other aspects of life are misleadingly named,

So, with hindsight, they can be blamed for creating confusion.

Self-delusion is just an illusion, something that won’t last, like an iconoclast.

Seeing through things is not the same as seeing them through.

Anymore than the expression: ‘through thick and thin,’

Refers to passing between stupid, skinny people.

The ‘thin end of the wedge’ suggests the worst part of something,

But, taken literally, it’s absurd—no one part of a wedge being worse than another.

It is said you can ‘hedge your bets,’ but you won’t find a bookie in any hedge.

To glean true meanings from ambiguous English you must patiently dredge,

And also to assess the validity of what others allege.

THE DRACULA APPRECIATION SOCIETY

2011-02-28T13:09:00.000+01:00

The Dracula Appreciation Society’s members were looking forward to their AGM, and who could blame them?

Their Founder/President beamed with pride in anticipation of all that the annual event would provide.

A new bust of Bram Stoker was to be unveiled and the Treasurer presented with an engraved poker.

The society’s membership had substantially grown, as founder member, Patrick Fussett had somehow always known.

Judging by the number of vampire film and TV spin-offs, regard for the fictive Count was not something held by Patrick alone.

The Dracula fans, gathered by Patrick, often dressed up like the legendary vampire,

Complete with fangs and flowing capes—behaviour seen by others as japes—they’re known collectively as the ‘Caped Crew.’

The Caped Crew’s dos couldn’t do without their eccentric caterer, Ada Fallowball,

Providing more than their refreshments, seemingly she does it all!

‘I don’t know what we’d do without Ada,’ Patrick habitually asserts.

Not intentionally sounding patronising in the manner, which he blurts.

Ada has her flaws, he knows, but atleast she never flirts.

Some of her idiosyncrasies are quirky, but her attitude towards vampires hurts.

To Patrick and the society’s dismay, she seems to think they are real vampires!

To protect herself she wears a garlic necklace, carries crucifixes and vials of holy water.

She regularly checks to see if society members have shadows and reflections, or seem to avoid sunlight.

Patrick’s gentle attempts to disabuse her of her views met with Ada’s brusque resistance and have long since been abandoned.

On balance, Patrick knew, Ada was efficient helper to the point of being indispensable, while her delusional beliefs were an embarrassment to him and his members.

Not that it was her fault, he remembers.

Still, she was theirs—the realisation elicits Patrick’s proprietorial pride.

She is the caped crew’s Ada, he smirks to himself and at the exact same instant she died!

BODY PARTS (Part 1)

2011-02-17T18:22:00.000+01:00

You can run things through your mind and jog your memory.

Your heart can be racing and there can be things on the tip of your tongue that you can’t put your finger on.

By the same token, a heavy heart weighs no more than it normally does.

Anymore than someone who is tearful is full of tears.

However, sweat pours from pores and fungal foot infections can form spores between the toes.

Chiropody costs money and you can’t foot the bill if you’ve blown your money,

But you should regularly blow your nose, especially when it’s runny.

Butterflies in your stomach would first have to be swallowed,

With great difficulty for those with frogs in their throats, which—

Don’t forget—already have apples in them.

Armpits are no such thing, and while broken arms can be supported by a sling,

For a broken heart, there is no such thing.

Despite the expression to the contrary, palms do not provide eating surfaces for others.

Ambiguously, shaking hands is both a type of formal greeting and a symptom of various neurological conditions.

When you vent your spleen it doesn’t mean it’s ventilated,

Lungs though can be assisted by a ventilator,

While getting things off your chest does not refer to mastectomies or, usually, even the removal of clothes.

Going out on a limb would make most pedestrians hopping mad, etc, etc, ad infinitum…

MINISTRY OF MEDIOCRITY OFFERS MILLIONS FOR 2011

2011-02-12T05:53:00.000+01:00

By Anji Noracull, Cultural Affairs Editor for Narolc's World.

Despite the current economic climate, the Ministry of Mediocrity is offering to create several dozen multi-millionaires this year. The riches are attainable in fields relevant to contemporary culture like sport, the arts and entertainment—as the Rt. Hon. Digory Polyp, Minister of Mediocrity, explains.

‘Those interested in the wealthy positions on offer,’ says Polyp, ‘Need not have previous experience or inherent talent. In fact, the malleable and mundane stand as great a chance as independent geniuses.’

The well-paid posts, as performing musicians, artists, writers, comics and footballers, will also provide fame through exhaustive media attention.

But critics of the ministerial scheme have called on Mr. Polyp to answer claims that his ideas will accelerate cultural deterioration in the UK and will only attract vapid, pliable puppets.

‘The suggestion that the ministry is seeking to employ puppets is completely misleading,’ Mr. Polyp replied. ‘All the posts are open to applicants without discrimination and with no strings attached.’ He added, ‘The selection process, too, is entirely democratic.’

However, the selection process seems arbitrary and shrouded in mystique with ‘celebrities’ appearing overnight from nowhere. Owing to the ministry’s confidentiality and discretion (‘C&D’) policy, details of how they were ‘selected’ prior to their emergence into the public eye are impossible to find. A cynic might suggest that anyone with half a mind to apply for the positions is adequately equipped.

'GOOD' GRIEF

2011-02-08T17:35:00.000+01:00

Who invented the phrase: ‘Good grief?’

Surely, it’s a contradiction in terms, but examining the nature of grief opens a can of worms, which is an expression coined by anglers.

Or so I believe.

How do you grieve?

It’s a simple question no two people will answer the same.

Lots of people are emotionally reticent and—unless they’re also inarticulate—they’re not to blame.

Perhaps what is felt cannot be defined, which lends credence to the concept of grief as unique and individually refined.

Whether it is or it isn’t, I really don’t mind.

Grief-stricken people, mind, invariably expect others to be kind.

Scavengers for sympathy are never hard to find, but I suspect, no one suffers like a stoic.

If all emotional experiences are totally unique to the individual, why is there typically a pressing need to share one’s feelings with others?

Why engage in a pathetic quest to find some common ground when, ironically, the only common ground is the grave?

Words fail me, as language fails the human race, when people refuse to agree on their meaning.

This is a habitual tactic—of semantic retreat—adopted by the weak to avoid being deprived of that which they seek.

Moving goalposts only works as a strategy with the complicity of berks.

Like the Emperor’s clothes, it requires the social compliance of persons capable of prolonged self-deception—something a self-respecting person loathes.

To prefer the delusional comfort these regularly occurring scenarios provides indicates, generally speaking, that people’s confidence is typically so shallow their behaviour becomes absurd.

Now, I’m off to shout at the backs of some deaf people in the hope that I’ll be heard!

PAM FERRIS WHEEL

2011-01-28T13:41:00.001+01:00

Pam Ferris Wheel’s down Jimmy Savile Row,

Where, you know, clothes maketh the man and are tailored to expectations.

Tailor made cigarettes are no such thing,

They bring expectorations and the coughing to coffins,

Which is a real drag.

Danny la Rue, in the days before Paul O’Grady,

Played a lady winning global recognition,

Perpetuating a very English tradition,

Like queuing, alcohol-induced spewing,

The Carry On films, Benny Hill and lavatorial humour,

Distant and removed from us like an excised tumour.

TITS

2010-11-30T19:35:00.000+01:00

A boob job is one thing,

Making a boob at work is another.

The booby hatch could describe a trap with breasts.

A booby hatch with a coat of arms could be the same with added crests.

Bristol fashion brings to mind a familiar passion.

A chesty cough won’t put off a breastfeeding baby’s scoff.

While keeping abreast of the times

Does not mean wrapping broadsheets around broad teats.

As a pair of potentially functional visual treats:

Tits, a woman’s chest completes.

PLATELETS

2010-10-08T17:19:00.001+02:00

Platelets sounds like a property management team for items of crockery!

Perhaps it is about time they were catered for,

In general, our treatment of these objects is poor,

Especially in Greek restaurants where plates are smashed on the floor!

Yes, we take plates for granted it’s true,

But what else are we supposed to do?

We’re not exactly going to be bowled over by them, are we?

I’m not suggesting that we should revere them,

Although some people do…

I’ve seen plates hanging on the walls of their houses, like works of art.

That’s going too far in my opinion; still it’s up to them.

What I will suggest is this: Next time you’re served with a plate,

Don’t overlook this item with its helpful eating surface,

Just quietly acknowledge it by saying, ‘Thanks, mate!’

RICKY HATTON

2010-09-25T01:28:00.006+02:00

Like many people, I have a high regard for Ricky Hatton. A regard undiminished by recent sensationalised exposés of his cocaine abuse. If the former world champion has a drug problem he has my sympathy, but I cannot share the ‘disgust’ he was quoted as feeling.

Over snorting cocaine? A snort of derision should greet the media-orchestrated process of apologetic self-abasement now expected from fallen role models.

Addressing the specifics, I wonder if even prolonged use of a class A drug is as dangerous to one’s mental health as a career enduring punches to the head.

More broadly, when are the general public going to stop reacting with disappointment and surprise when individuals who famously excel at one thing prove fallible?

DALEKS

2010-09-21T17:41:00.002+02:00

Da-licks—daleks with added tongues,

Daleks that breathe—daleks with lungs,

Daleks accepting bribes—daleks taking bungs.

Daleks in love, a contradiction in terms,

Daleks in curly wigs, daleks with perms?

Dalektric dreams, dialect of screams.

Daleks at Wimbledon,

Eating strawberries and cream,

Brightly polished daleks really shine and gleam.

Incognito daleks are daleks in disguise,

Daleks don’t wear glasses or have what we call eyes.

A slapstick sketch for daleks with lots of custard pies,

Simmer one in cooking oil until the dalek fries.

Daleks in batter don’t matter while they’re crisp,

When it comes to the crunch, daleks form a bunch,

They don’t have a tea break,

Nor do they stop for lunch.

An intuitive dalek, said to have a hunch,

Is afflicted with a speech impediment and sounds like Mr. Punch.

Stammering daleks, daleks with Tourette’s,

Daleks with dementia and daleks with regrets,

Remain the foes of Dr. Who that no one quite forgets.

Daleks distraught, daleks in Wales,

Inspiring fear—no dalek fails.

A dalek with hiccups might need to sip some oil,

Something a dalek is good at is unrelenting toil.

Despite their being logical, you can’t reason with a dalek,

Nor make them laugh or cry,

You can make them soaking wet and then—

You can let them bleeding dry.

Daleks are ridiculously compelling,

Have you ever wondered why?

CHUNG’S CHINESE TAKEAWAY

2010-08-27T20:33:00.000+02:00

Outside Chung’s Chinese Takeaway, stands a nutter, To utter at passers-by, ‘Chinese take away what?’
Ignored by most, the madman’s post is tolerated by Mr. Chung,
The proprietor with one lung.
Chung’s wheezes sound like breezes,
He donates a percentage of his profits to charities supporting asthmatics.
Pneumatic drills fill the air with their relentless noise
Outside the takeaway one day,
Making the madman cover his ears with his hands,
Trembling, sweating, he worries about his glands.
Are they letting him down?
He sees Mr. Chung as an Oriental clown.
At the back of the takeaway’s premises,
Boxes of fortune cookies foretell everything under the sun.
Chinese characters, displayed on banners above the counter, form an Asian pun.
Slightly erudite punters,
Interested in Cantonese and calligraphy,
Hazard guesses at the banner’s meaning,
And this impresses Mr. Chung.
Eric Cantona’s knees in Cantonese,
Another linguistic tease for Chung’s poser-punters-hunters—
Constantly seeking a cultural image to veil their shallowness.
A shallow Loch Ness would end speculation about its legendary monster,
Not that Chung cares for that, or any other urban myth.
As a lifelong celibate bachelor, a stranger to the lovers’ tiff,
Never is he lonely, he keeps too busy for that,
Yet sometimes he wonders all the same,
If the grass would be greener with a partner
He could fornicate with and blame.
Now, in his sixties, Chung recalls the ’60s,
And, distortedly, his youth,
His vision is impaired by sentiment,
His faulty memory is the result of decayed synapses,
Presenting symptoms of the onset of Alzheimer’s.
The nutter adopts a silent approach,
Presenting his repetitive query printed on a sandwich board.
Chung’s customers congratulate him on his clever advertising campaign,
He smiles his acknowledgement because he is polite, not vain.
Out in the kitchen, Chung sets fire to himself with his degenerating brain.
At last, the madman gets the answer he’s been awaiting for so long,
As Chinese undertakers take Chung away in a coffin.

THE STRIKE-BREAKING HAEMOPHILIAC

2010-08-21T11:39:00.000+02:00

As haemophiliacs at their drop-in centre wondered why they bled,
Taking industrial action filled one haemophiliac with dread.
He was the first to break the strike he pretended he’d led—
To ingratiate himself with his workmates who wished that he was dead.
As he crossed the picket line, cries of, ‘Scab! Scab!’ were heard,
Which struck him as ironic, but not when it occurred.
It struck him as iconic—being struck by an effigy of a celebrity.
When he began to bleed, he knew he should go with the flow.
Leaving, he observed further irony amidst shouts of, ‘Go, clot, go!’

PICCADILLY

2010-08-08T16:11:00.000+02:00

Don’t pick a ninny in Piccadilly to taste piccalilli,
For that would be silly.
As silly as picking knitters to nit pick at a picnic with,
Being too busy knitting jumpers to knit their brows having rows,
They’d hamper the picnic.
Pickpockets nick property; pedants pick holes in things,
Holes in your pockets will sock it to a pickpocket—
Who fleeing, empty-handed, wonders if pedants picked the holes in Swiss cheeses.
In Arctic breezes, a pickpocket freezes,
Wondering whether Gruyere is a Swiss cheese or an Australian feminist.

JULIAN CLORAN—ART EXHIBITION IN THE HANOVER, BRIGHTON

2010-07-10T14:09:00.000+02:00

'TIGHT WORK'

Acrylic on canvas 90 cm. x 90 cm. 1992.

Ten of my acrylic paintings (eight on canvas, two on lining paper—mounted and set under glass) are currently on display in The Hanover, Queen’s Park Road, Brighton. The pictures span a twenty-year period, from 1990 to the present, during which time I have regularly exhibited and sold my work. I am a member of the National Acrylic Painters’ Association (NAPA) and have also shown my work with them. Since the year 2000’s edition, I have been an entrant in the Who’s Who in Art and recent years have seen me increasingly active online with Flickr. The prices of work currently on show starts from £50. The Hanover is a popular pub in Brighton’s fashionable quarter of the same name. Renowned for its food, the pub recently attracted attention in connection with the arts as one of the hosts for the May festival’s Open Houses.

'ALEX'

Acrylic on lining paper 45 cm. x 100 cm. 2008-10.

FREE LIVE PERFORMANCE IN BRIGHTON!

2010-07-01T15:21:00.000+02:00

FREE ENTERTAINMENT
AT PARIS BAR, FENCHURCH WALK (100 METRES UP FROM ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S CHURCH)
ON FRIDAY 9TH OF JULY
DOORS OPEN: 7.30pm
SHOW STARTS AT 8.00pm PROMPT!
LIVE PERFORMANCE
FEATURING
HUMOROUS ANALYSIS &
PERFORMANCE POETRY
By JULIAN CLORAN
&
MUSIC from GEMMA WILLIAMS

THE CRESS WARS VETERANS

2010-05-26T21:25:00.000+02:00

Macauley Culkin’s sulking,

Skulking in a corner with not so little Jack Warner of Warner Brothers.
Mothers driven to despair, by chauffeurs who don’t care,
En-route to nowhere.
Nowhere Man, Tomorrow’s People,
An ancient building with a modern steeple,
Steeplejack Warner bathing in a sauna has torn a ligament climbing out.
Climbing doubt reaches its peak,
Hiders hide and seekers seek,
Jacob Marley and Jacob’s Creek,
Incoherent references, so to speak.
Marleybone station, the Stations of the Cross,
The revival of Christian values, a revival of interest in Bros,
Moss Bros, Stirling Moss, gloss paint, faint floss—candy and dental,
DVDs and blue ray for sale or rental,
Detrimental, regimental, militants, the military and their artillery,
Capillaries, in a similar vein, connected arterially to the inner brain.
Hemispheres of the brain in the western hemisphere recognise where international, cultural differences appear,
Like saki and beer, football and gear,
Gearing up for a change, changing gears,
Shifts attention from motorised vehicles to outfit changes.
Changing times, time for change—two clichéd phrases from the limited range of politicians.
Statisticians’ traditions include lies, can involve spies and sometimes, even, the consumption of pies.
Thighs riddled with cellulite shake and quiver in the night,
Not gone into gently like a subtle Dylan Thomas allusion,
Maya represents the Hindi vision of illusion,
Whose intrusion clouds our reason.
The mating season, seasonal work,
A job for the summer and the winter to shirk,
The winter of our discontent, winter mixture,
A mixture of snow and sleet,
Making winter complete.
Completed tasks, good jobs well done,
Concreted casks containing diagrams of diaphragms
Disturbed by hiccups and the records of dire prams,
That once got pushed by our ancestors.
Ann’s cess stores stash the slash from those who fought in cress wars,
Now—bores—these vets walk their pets,
Making bets on pointless outcomes.
Out come their old war stories,
They’re like born-again gore-Tories,
These relics reliving their past glories,
Looking back through a rose-tinted haze at the good old days.
Romanticising the backdrop of global warfare and genocide,
With ignorant pride, they confide they’re currently terrified,
Of anonymous, lawless thugs,
Who claim benefits, steal and take drugs,
These mindless yobs should all get jobs,
Whether or not they get paid,
Simply because their predecessors did,
Thankful for each day they stayed.
Despite being poor and fighting the war,
Life was good, like during the blackout—
For that was when, mostly, they got laid.
If life was shit, they didn’t mind a bit,
Atleast they weren’t afraid.
They knew what was what,
They didn’t have a lot,
Still, there was no such thing as a communist plot!

LADDERS AND BLADDERS

2010-05-14T15:57:00.000+02:00

Ladders sounds like bladders and full bladders can make you climb the walls without the former, while not being much use for reaching a dormer.
Snakes and Bladders is a piss taker’s game,
Aches and ladders combine arthritis with voyeurism and a window frame.
You can climb ladders but not bladders, which simply squish underfoot.
You can get bladdered—at which point it is inadvisable to climb ladders and tights can get laddered by drunks and when climbing ladders.
Black Adder rhymes with slack bladder, which sufferers from bemoan, can cause them to miss episodes of the former.
There is a gall bladder but no gall ladder.
I wonder if that galled Sandy Gall?
Accidents with ladders can involve a fall.
Walking under ladders is said to be unlucky…
What could walking under a bladder be described as?
Bladders contain various amounts of dispensable liquid,
Ladders don’t—but ladders help firemen and bladders won’t!

WELL, WELL, WELL

2010-04-24T20:39:00.000+02:00

It is better to put things well than put things in a well, where they’d get wet.
You can know full well something’s going on while remaining ignorant of how full a well is.
A successful gambler can win well in Welwyn Garden City without feeling shitty, providing he means well.
Inkwells are old-fashioned and seldom seen nowadays, although there are a few in Staines and Blackpool.
People who ask, ‘Are you keeping well?’ Should, strictly speaking, rephrase the question.
Although I accept they are, generally, well-wishers.
Wishing wells are full of coins but you’d get more money out of oil wells.
One who oils well is unlikely to hear their hinges creak, while painting well in oils falls short of the old masters at their peak.
If you’re ‘welling up’ it means you are close to tears,
Unlike a so-called town crier, who is dry-eyed when he appears.
Well-meaning people don’t mean wells,
Any more than Wells Cathedral is a place of worship for wells.
H. G. Wells wasn’t wells but a writer—still, his words were well chosen.
Ice at the bottom of a well is obviously well frozen.
A bucket dropped to the bottom of an unknown well ‘pails’ into insignificance.
All’s well that ends well is not true for wells.
Oh, well!
There’s no such thing as a well-lit street—wells do not produce a light source.
Equally absurd are the notions of well-built men and well-adjusted children,
Patently, wells are not responsible for a male’s physique or in any way involved with the emotional development of a child.
No doubt many of us are well acquainted with these misleading terms,
People are well advised—not literally—not to take them literally.
The well heeled must find it difficult to walk, however well read they are or well spoken.
As for those who look well preserved, they owe wells no gratitude.
Wells get huge amounts of undeserved credit; something, which I think makes them pretty low.
Ill people don’t literally want to get well soon—it’d be a nuisance and spoil their afternoon.
Anyway, enough’s enough, I’ll finish off now—the subject’s been well covered.

NOAH—DISCREDITED

2010-04-09T16:28:00.000+02:00

Noah’s ark was worse than his height, Yet when he was gruff he gave folk a fright.
Noah was ignorant of proverbs,
In particular, the one that ascribes greater value to a bird in the hand compared with two in a bush.
During the flood, he demonstrated his ignorance by wasting doves.
Noah’s role at this time is one of the most ludicrous and implausible things described in the Old Testament,
Which is crammed with absurdities and extremes.
Chosen by a voice in his head,
Noah took to an extreme the notion of working in his garden shed.
Eventually emerging to launch a vast marine menagerie,
He managed to keep afloat,
Although at his best his chances were extremely remote.
On the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling,
Michelangelo portrayed Noah getting drunk,
Which seems a fitting way to remember this stupid biblical lunk.