Unpopular Art and Poetry for the Masses

I have been very very busy lately producing artwork for my exhibition, only today when I asked Mrs Ghostwriter her opinion of my latest picture she said. . . . . . . OOOOOOoooooooo I dont like that much . . . . . . . Mrs Ghostwriter is a tough critic to please. So I am letting you see what she does not like, something us artists would not normally do. I mean if someone goes OOOOOOOoooo then putting the art in cyberspace will allow everyone else to say. . . . OOOooooooo she is right you know that is rubbish. . . . .  I have also added some repeated poetry that was also not very popular at the time in order to give this post a theme. And besides I am busy doing my best to make sure the next picture gets past Mrs Ghostwriter or as she is technically known Quality Control.

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

No No there is a long way to go

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

I just said we are not, and the traffic is quite slow

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

No I have just said, why don’t you play I Spy

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

No, will you stop asking or I will hit you with the cat and that will make you Cry

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

Look up there in the sky it’s a large Vampire Zombie Rook.

That eats small children that ask stupid questions

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

Just keep quiet and read a book

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

OK that’s it I have had enough

DAD. . . .Why have you locked me in the Boot I cant see.

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Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

AAAAAuuuuuuuuugggggggHHHHHHHHHH.

DAD. . . . . . . . . The Cats Dead.

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WHAT?

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I do love some of that Franciscan Funk

And a bit of Hip Hop from Thelonious Monk

Plus a bit of Opera from those chaps at Motown

Or the famous Water Music by that chap Arthur Brown.

Or even that song Nineteen Ninety Nine by Arthur C Clark

And the Star spangled Banner as played at Woodstock by Johann Sebastian Bach

Who as we all know played saxophone with the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band . . . . just for a lark.

Although these days

I do have a problem remembering who plays and sings what

And folk say I am loony and have completely lost the plot.

Mind You

I once played the Bermuda triangle in the band at School

But I was told using a violin bow

Made me look like a fool.

Poetry for a Hot Day

Ah yes sorry I drew the wrong thing DAMN

Today Britain has been very very hot

And oozy and sweaty we have all got

And not in a nice oozy and sweaty way

Because us brits can’t cope

With this sort of day

And we all complain and loudly say

We prefer it cold with some nice cool rain

But when that happens we then complain

Because when it comes to weather

Us brits are quite insane

And never ever happy

And tell all

That British weather

Is indeed a pain

I mean no one likes

Rain Heat Mist and Snow

And on that point

It is time to go

It is getting late

And there is a bit

Of a chill in the air

Not that folk

Really care

And I have now got moths in the Kitchen

DAMN

Poetry for the Perfect Crime

I have trimmed the lawn

And cut the hedge

Watered the plants

And buried Reg

Underneath the patio

AH no sorry

No he has run away

To a foreign land

Or so I have been led to understand

And all his dogs have run away

And will not be back

So the neighbours say

And it was a shock to see

His house burn down

The fire brigade stuck

Just out of town

By a fallen tree on the track

Plus several boulders in a sack

And a huge hole

Dug in the dead of night

Something the fire brigade said

Was a bit suspicious and not quite right

Meaning Reg’s house has completely gone

Destroying the scene of the crime

Sorry I mean

Reg must be having a terrible time

Wherever he is

Although none of us know

But he is definitely not

Under my patio

AH

DAMN

Maybe I should not have said that

The Life of a Struggling Artist

I am a rather busy bee at present in the real world, you know the one where folk actually run about in the flesh talking to each other, eating food and, doing things of a physical nature. So far I have four almost finished pictures towards my future exhibition that my new manager Mr Charlie is planning. Many folk have been saying I need to do more art and so it is now happening, what I suspect might happen is folk will now go . . . . AH DAMN yes when we said art we meant something entirely different not those weird little pics. . . . . . Have you considered some performance art out in the desolate waste lands of Shropshire . . . .

You see this is why I have not really worked hard over the years being an artist, because I’m a bit of a traditionalist in a rebel sort of way. I don’t believe art should cost a fortune and all this trend for modern installations or performance art annoys me. Not because of what it is, but the truth is really good modern art is hardly new and so many of the present lot are redoing stuff that has been done to death already. Anyway I will just do what I do which is the sort of chap I am.

So there you have it a quick post to bring folk up to date. One minor drawback of all this art, gardening and sorting out the office is the poor old blog is losing page views like a stone falling through a vacuum. No wonder that Picasso chopped his ear off and the like, art is a bit all-consuming if you want to put a decent exhibition together. Never mind I will battle away both in the black voids of cyberspace and the black voids of art now. It is not easy scratching out a little place in the universe when you are just a chap among chaps in a world that is generally a bit chaotic.  The life of a struggling artist can be a funny old place to be, and yes sorry I have not written a poem in over a week. . . . .terrible

  

   

The Start of Master Plan Number 42

Today it has started and we all know what that is going to mean . . . . .  Well it will mean with some degree of certainty that I will be posting stuff slightly less than normal. OK yes that bit has already started, but that is because I have been busy trying to stay on top of the garden and also slowly but surely working towards moving the office. The first step of which was running a network cable to the new room, which I have now done I just need to sort the room out a bit, it is rather full of stuff. (a chaps work is never done).

Right back to the main point, as you all know I tend to post a picture of some sort with most of my blog posts, things I have drawn most of the time in the days or day previously. Well I have been requested by a friend to turn them into solid pictures that can hang on the wall and be poked at by folks fingers as they ponder and say things like . . . . Well what is that meant to be its Rubbish . . . .  The public are a fickle and unforgiving bunch who do have a habit of saying. . . . I could do that. . . . 

So today or strictly speaking last night I started to turn the first of these images into a tangible solid thing. They will be smallish, I don’t have the resources to create huge pictures, and will actually be slightly sort of three dimensional. A bit like the cardboard sculpture I have created on and off for years only flatter, anyway I have a plan and know exactly what I want these to look like. All I need to do is see if the plan works with the first picture.

So what this means is time is a bit limited I will find it impossible to post something on the blog every day as well as move the office and stay on top of the garden, it is well over half an acre and write poetry and get an exhibition together for hopefully the end of this year.  So if I do vanish for a few days then all is well; if I vanish for say three weeks then all is not well and I will need to be rescued from mad Zombies or something of a similar nature.

You can all blame my good friend Mr Charlie but I have told him he has to be my manager now and do all the organising as I am a temperamental and grumpy artist.  I still am not sure if this exhibition will happen, but I will give it my best and we will see how it all pans out, you know what life is like sometimes stuff works and sometimes stuff does not.      

Poetry for a Ticking Clock

The ticking clock

Goes tick tock

Tick tock

Even when placed

Behind a rock

And placed inside

A smelly sock

You can be sure

That it still goes

Tick tock

Tick tock

Because it is

The great eternal  

Ticking clock

And

Even Einstein

Tried and tried

To stop the tick tock

So he could slide

Through the fabric

Of time and space

But in the end

He had to face

The great eternal

Ticking clock

Of the

Human

Race  

Poetry for a Beast that Flies

The perforated Pelican

Likes to eat cottage cheese and cake

And in Evolutionary terms

Is a bit of a mistake

Flying round in circles

From reasons that are just not known

And when I show folk pictures

They look at me, in a certain tone

Implying I am totally mad

From the outside of my skin

Right to the bone

But I tell them the beast is invisible

And that’s why they do not see

And I have a tame one in my garden

That likes to come and visit

For a nice cup of

Afternoon tea

Where we chat and pass the time of day

And laugh and point and joke

And the perforated Pelican

Tells me

I am a nice chap

And an unusual sort of bloke

MAD NO

Surely you don’t mean me

But if you do then you will see

When I set the perforated Pelican

Upon you

Or alternatively my huge

Mutant Android Bumble Bee

And yes it is invisible also

So

YA SUCKS BOO 

Poetry about Witches and a Gnome

There are witches

In the woods they say

That run about Naked

Both night and day

But I'm not convinced

This is entirely true

As there are insects

That bite

And in the cold of winter

The witches would

Turn blue

Although in the summer

It might make more sense

But even then

The undergrowth can be Spiky

And very dense

But being witches I guess

They can always cast a spell

So even dancing naked

Can end sort of well

With just a few scratches

From their faithful cats

But I bet even then

On their heads

They keep their hats . . . (The Witches not the Cats)

But one thing I know

Is you would never catch me

Running naked in a wood

As folk would snigger

If they could

I am sensible and confine

Such activity

To the privacy of

My stately home

Where I can

Run about naked

With my mate

The Garden Gnome

Poetry for Science Sort of Stuff . .

Science it seems can be quite important

Particularly if you are an alien with a laser beam

Or Professor Bernard Quatermass

And his top notch scientific team  

But slightly less so if you have a van

On Clacton beach and like to sell ice cream

(Like granddad)  

All I know, which is not a lot

Is science can be jolly complex

And will mess with the thoughts

Inside your head

As someone explains time is just a paradox

And black is really red.

And electrons are all just empty space

And the human mind

Will turn everything into a smiley face

And Polypropylene is a linear hydrocarbon polymer

Which once warmed up can change its shape

A bit like my

Auntie Grace

Who seldom has

A

Smiley face.

Even when she has been heated up

The Kiple and the Grustle . . . A poem

The Kiple once called the Grustle a fool

When it hissed at man in a large swimming pool

Who distracted fell off the high diving board

And got left suspended by

His swimming trucks cord

The Grustle amused laughed and it laughed

The Kiple accusing it of creating a draft

The lifeguard saving the man

With his trusty pen knife

Cutting the cord the man then fell on his wife

Who below was filming on her mobile phone

The video ending abruptly

With a scream and a groan

And although slightly scratched and battered

They are now both stars

On YouTube so they say

Although it’s a YouTube video

The Grustle refuses to play