Search Party

April 30, 2008

I’m so dull and down,

That the light at the end of my tunnel

Will be the torches of the search party

After the cave in

During a tour

Of the Great Orme Copper mines,

In North Wales,

Which is now open Sundays,

With free admission for under-5s

After I’m excavated I’ll probably

Have a peek in the gift shop.

EPILOGUE

I will then spend an hour haggling

Over the price of a key-ring torch.

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Aspire for ’08!

April 4, 2008

I have spent the past few days making a little postcard size comic called Why Hip Hop Sucks in ’08, it is a little 16 page black and white pamphlet with a few poems, comics, doodles and jokes.  I’m essentially just ripping off Lizzlizz and David Shrigley, but I’m having fun and that’s all that matters.   If you would like a copy of this life changing document, then let me know in the comments, or email me.  Or hit me up on MSN (miguelvennie@hotmail.com).  I need to know how many to print.

In the meantime I am so lazy I have used a preview page as my latest comic update, go and have a look, and if it’s any recommendation, it’s in my top 5 favourite things I’ve ever drawn.

New Comic (Don’t Mess)

March 25, 2008

I have just lobbed up yet another new comic at tizersoze.co.uk (you lucky people).

I’ve also flash-traced yet another pal, namely the Queen of the teency weency Tizer Soze fanbase Moucho Blasto…

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Cheese Camp Queer

March 24, 2008

I’ve noticed a growing trend of ‘blackout poems’ on stumble upon, in which one takes a page of a book and blacks out the majority of the words, leaving a fractured tone poem. I have been mildly fascinated with the term ‘queer’ not only being acceptable but actually encouraged in academia, so my poem is based on that term, from page 172 of Dying for a Laugh – Disaster and the Camp Imagination. I actually lucked out big time with some of the stuff in this…

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Cheese Camp Queer

by Michael ‘Internet Trend Bandwagon Jumper’ O’Keefe

“Cheese”,

Queer

Closeted

Queer camp

Queer camp

Queerness

“With a set of quotation marks that hover above it like an ironic halo”

An exhausted piece of debris ready to be camped up

“Camped up”

Queer

How parody works

Queer

Deliberate mass camp

Repetition of textual elements from established prototextual systems decontextualizes them as well as alters their composition, thus generating multiple levels of ironic incongruity

Deliberate, mass camp

Frontier
 

As is the tradition on any good old English commute,

Each braking of the bus and hiss of the folding doors gave way to a barrage of freaks and outcasts. 

They had places to be, and they had to be, and fast. 

I remember that this day was a particularly good day for commuting curios,

As it was the day that the Downs Syndrome boy in the wild west get up bounded up the stairs and to the driver’s cab. 

He handed over the pound coin in his hand, then readied himself to face the rows of varmints already seated. 

He was wearing his cowboy’s hat, a ten gallon hat or a stetson, adorned with glitter and silver sequins,

A fancy dress shop cast-off. 

He was wearing boot-cut wrangler jeans that were too long at the waist and thus flopped into bell bottoms at the heel. 

His snake skin boots were imitation Ostrich and his T-Shirt was an embossed picture of the American flag.

‘Never forget 9/11’ was stencilled below it. 

The flag looked like it was waving in the wind. 

Either this was the drama of the garment, or this boy needed an iron. 

His jacket was suede or leather, a decent cut and easily the nicest item of clothing on the whole bus. 

However it had tassels, too many tassels, like an Indian brave’s night jacket,

Or a middle age line dancer’s culottes and leotard.

 

“Look at this cunt”

 

The boy turned to amble up the centre aisle of the bus, and the first wave of piss vapours hit.

Eyes watered all the way up the aisle seats from the young unwed mother up front, to the grizzled and unfriendly builders at the back. 

These folk used their strong accents to whisper curses and warnings of the urinal wafts that floated back and forth. 

They warned the lucky souls in the window seats,

But it was only a matter of seconds before eyes that glared at the sunrise and promise of roadsigns to the south were watering too. 

The good ol’ boy had chosen a seat in the middle of the bus, so that his aroma could be fairly distributed. 

He had ambled up the bus with a John Wayne swagger, that declared first his dominance and then second his overflowing, nurse-fitted catheter.

 

Whispers and pregnant eye contact. “I wonder if he knows he’s dressed like that?”

 

Not long after the boy had sat down a mad tramp embarked and even more watering eyes were cast down at novels and walkmans and free papers. 

The tramp also smelled of piss, but a warmer more homely piss, like a favoured but blighted uncle. 

The tramp chose a seat at the front of the bus, a seat next to a young asian lady whose discomfort and squirms became an audible squeal to the few of us still interested in our fellow passengers. 

We all pitied her. 

The tramp had barely settled in before spinning and shooting a dagger glance at the Downs syndrome cowboy. 

I was a few seats back and could marvel at the whole affair. 

I was not alone in my staring, a young couple across the row were also transfixed, and a man in his early forties had cut short a text message to peep over the seats. 

These bus tickets were worth more than a quid.

 

 

The four of us; the couple, middle aged man and myself had set our alarms this morning for six AM, a half hour to awake, twenty minutes to eat and shower and ten minutes to feel sorry for ourselves before running to catch the seven AM bus. 

 

The four of us were considering our good fortune that morning,

For the first time in a long time, as our routine had led us to a stand off between a tramp and a down’s syndrome boy. 

We created dramas in our minds in which the boy was the last bastion of mongoloid justice along the Teesside frontier, and the tramp was the last dwindling affront to the new regime of glitterly dressed authority. 

We watched their trigger fingers quiver. 

Each man had boarded the vehicle believing themselves to be the resident cause of social alarm, neither had banked on competition. 

Rather than a gunfight, a fistfight or an exchange of words, the age-old adversaries swapped a mingling of smells. 

Urine in it’s various consistencies and strengths was fanned like low blows up and down the cab,

Turning the aisle into a stench-trench of conflict. 

 

The bus arrived in Gateshead centre, where the cheap markets and bargain £1 stores began,

And both the lone ranger and tramp alighted the bus. 

As the cowboy stood, he adjusted his belt and I heard the jangling of spurs. 

I knew that I had heard the clink of small change, but pretended that I had heard a an old defender of the American way re-adjusting his buffalo belt and disturbing his jagged spurs. 

There were no Americans on the bus, but that didn’t matter to the Mong-dance kid,

Whose soul purpose and sole purpose was to ensure the safety of the proles from the age old enemy, the vagrants.

God bless him.

With the freaks gone and only the white workers left on the bus,

I turned my magnifying glass on myself and found nothing hilarious, 

Just an ageing cunt who had spent the last fifteen minutes observing an imaginary battle between imaginary folk. 

The only difference between myself and the Down’s syndrome cowboy was that the cowboy had boarded the bus with his head held high.

 

That and the smell of urine.

 

As I watched the smirks of recognition wave back and forth up and down the bus, like a remnant guff of piss,

I also realised that polite society had been reduced to this:

To speak without initiation to a man at a bus-stop was an act of treason tantamount to dressing as a cowboy and soiling yourself. 

The only acceptable form of communication in this year of this century was a knowing glance after the departure of a good quality mentalist. 

 

We are reduced to only touching base with each other to rebuke the weak.  These thoughts, however, were too heady for a Monday morning. 

 

Epilogue to Frontier

 

I saw the cowboy again the other day, but he was in his casual wear.

He was wearing a Dallas baseball cap and a bomber jacket.

I squinted to get a good look at the keys and rings dangling from his belt.

One key ring was the confederate flag,

Another said ‘Dolly Parton’.

Treehouse Rock

March 15, 2008

New comic up over at Tizer Soze, it’s a good one I think.

Whilst wandering the Laing Gallery yesterday I came across a couple of superb paintings by someone called John Martin. One of them Sodom and Gomorrah was like looking into a metaphor for my life at the moment:

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For Our Children!

February 12, 2008

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Crab

February 10, 2008

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