Laughs

I’m a bad person.
When I see someone carrying recently made food I always visualise them dropping it. It’s just part of the human condition that other peoples failures are funny and there is nothing more spectacular than the cake drop.

The room fills with the aroma of freshly risen sponge.
The icing drips down the side.
Excitement buzzes.
And then it happens.
the shoe laces tangle.
The knees buckle.
And it goes flying through the air like a sweet vanilla projectile

The picture shows a typical incident. Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” can be seen. It is thought that the inspiration for the painting came from a similar incident that Munch experienced at his 5th birthday party.

People love schadenfreude, it goes all the way back to the earliest forms of comedy. English comedy is filled with slapstick.

Munch never truly recovered from the incident but he still managed to save some cake.

Generations

He lay with his greasy face against the cold laminate flooring after being dropped for the third time that morning.
He begged that he was not cracked, he had fallen at an odd angle.

Vertigo set in as a hand clamped around him and hastily lifted him from the floor. The fingerprints were wiped from his face by a shirt sleeve and he heard a sigh of relief, his screen was still intact.

Fingers smooshed his face once more as his user typed out a text.

He had been worried as of late, he had heard the rumours.
It was always discussed at this time of year, like clockwork, it panicked him immensely.
He hoped they were just rumours.

A new generation was coming.
He was being replaced.

His circuits buzzed as he daydreamed his demise in to the obsolete.
He thought he was special, irreplaceable, unique.

But the new phone was 0.6 inches bigger.
A technological revolution.

He placed himself on silent and hid behind the sofa cushions.
That’ll show ’em.

Stories – Part 2

He hides a hard truth
A closet claustrophobic
He is irony
Haiku 5 – “Claustrophobia” by Art Artz

They stare up at him
Under the microscopes glare
His patient is cured
Haiku 6 – “Bacteri ummm…” by Art Artz

The hero prevails
He stretches faking a yawn
He’s a first date pro
Haiku 7 – “Teenage daters” by Art Artz

If there were no banks
Payday would be a nightmare
Get a bigger purse
Haiku 8 – “Making it rain” by Art Artz

Crabs

The crab scuttles aimlessly across the wide open beach.
His icy blood is warmed by the harsh sun.

He snaps his claws together with bitter anguish, wishing for a more dexterous tool. A crustaceous Edward Scissorhands, his handshakes are never appreciated.

He was always bumping in to people in the street because he insisted on walking sideways and after all this stress, if things went badly, he might end up in one of those restaurant tanks like his cousin Barry.
It was a tough life.

At least there was always a castle to visit if he got bored…

Shoppers

Whenever i’m at a supermarket I always feel like i’m in the way.

Much like this elephant.

I just like looking at vegetables.
I mean how do you know your getting the best tomatoes for your money if you don’t peruse every tomato in the shop. There may be one tomato hiding at the bottom that’s the best tomato anyone has ever tasted.

Angry shoppers look at me like i’m an irritation, hindering their shopping experience. I just have a lot of time on my hands.

I get home and lay out my beautiful, plump, fresh vegetables.
They get home and weep over their unripe peaches.

Fools.

Stories

Thin Legs and Long Neck.
On The Decks A Vinyl Spins.
Dropping Some Sick Beats.
Haiku 1 – “The Stork” by Art Artz

Always Rotating.
The Cold Tarmac Rubs His Skin
A Short Dizzy Life.
Haiku 2 – “Wheels” by Art Artz

The Cement Binds Them.
But One Brick Wished He was Free.
His Friends Disapproved.
Haiku 3 – “Bricks” by Art Artz

His Arthritis Creaks.
Writing Down His Memories.
Quiet Senescence.
Haiku 4 – “Age” by Art Artz

Pencils

“Please no” the pencil murmurs as the sharpener rapidly approaches. “I’m small as it is…”
A nearby pencil case cackles cruelly at the pencil as it’s cries fall on deaf ears.

Oh how he wished to be a sharpie… those guys were so cool, with their ever lasting ink. His work could be brushed away with a simple rubber.

“it’s what’s inside that counts” His mother had always said, completely unaware of the irony. His grandfather had been Shakespeare’s pencil. He was just downright average. He just didn’t have the creativity of the rest of his family.

The sharpener slowly and cruelly shaved away another chunk of wood reducing his length ever more.
Forever under appreciated…
Poor Noris…

Joggers

It seems odd that when you see a jogger out on the street you always assume they jog every day. I see a guy in full kit with his fluorescent trainers and just think that he’s a pro…

This obviously is not true, when i jog outside once in a blue moon, struggling for breath as I stumble across the streets of London, I think people see me as a pretender. In truth I probably get lumped in with the pros. I feel that this is unfair on them.

Because of this theory, i have taken to standing on street corners and breathing heavily while wearing full jogging attire. This way members of the public think I must be a marathon runner, or similar, pushing myself really hard. See below.

They probably just think i’m asthmatic…

Bribes

I hand the loveable nitwit another wad of cash in return for his ego soothing but clearly false flattery.
“Please Mr Art, tell me, how you achieve such perfection” says the small child

Another 5 pounds well spent.

It starts with a blank canvas.
A work surface on to which my creative juices can spill, much like when you accidently put the straw all the way through the capri-sun packet.

And then comes the idea, represented here as a thought bubble. This originates spontaneously. Inspiration can come from anywhere. Sometimes the inspiration can be the idea itself, this is known as the ‘idea of an idea’ paradox and puts the artist into a beautiful but inescapable artistic hole. It is thought that Van Gogh cut off his own ear just to escape the loop.

I achieved the loop in this particular piece I call “Woman in a Parka coat” or “Fur Hood”. You can choose.

I turn to face the boy again, expecting awe and wonderment
“Well there it is my beggar companion. Perfection. Here is some more cash for your trouble”

But alas he has gone.
And so has my wallet…