New Magazine Published


In order to raise some cash I have launched a new and exciting magazine about every available car parking space in and around South Yorkshire, cryptically entitled “Car Parking Spaces Monthly” the 700 page magazine will focus on issues concerning the modern car parking space enthusiast.

The first issue comes with a free headache and is available from  – “Chest Infections Direct”Your one stop shop for bulk phlegm!

Words and nonsense © D. Archer/ December 2015

Rembrandt Van Rijn

Not many people know this but before Rembrandt Van Rijn was famous for his matchstick men and women paintings he had a nice little earner producing saucy seaside postcards.

In the olden days the pancreas was thought to be where orgasms came from.

Most people couldn’t afford to have a portrait of themselves done for Christmas or to put on a tea-towel or a mug so they would go down to the harbour and wait for Rembrandt to sail past in his boat. Rembrandt would shout out the names of famous footballers (or Soccer players if the peasants looked American) and if the person on the dockside could make a rude anagram out of the name then Rembrandt would come ashore and paint them for free.

In 1985 when Rembrandt died it was estimated that he had been dead for a lot longer.

Rembrandt loved to paint cars and in his spare time he would go to the local car park and tip paint all over the cars that were parked in the disabled bays without a blue badge.

Rembrandt was also the name of my first cat but he couldn’t paint at all he just looked at me funny when I took my trousers off.

I miss that cat.

In 1986 Rembrandt (the artist, not my cat) was still dead. My cat, Rembrandt, strangely enough died in 1987. I didn’t wear any trousers for a whole year as a mark of respect.

I spent 1988 in prison for  indecent exposure and it was whilst in Prison that I learned that Rembrandt (the artist, not my cat) was also a great saxophone player and even had a chance to record an album with David Hasselhoff (HasselHoff translated directly from the German/Austrian/Bulgarian dialect actually means “Shrunken-Sperm”). 

It was also around this time I was admitted to hospital for what was to be the first of many psychotic episodes. They told me that everything would be OK if I just kept taking my tablets and never ever started a blog on the internet.

Are you still reading this?

Words © D. Archer. Pictures by RVJ.

New Poetry Anthology

Need-Some-Milk-CoverIn order to rise some cash I have released my poetry anthology early, in fact so early that there are 356 blank pages at the back of the book for colouring in or making shopping lists or for all your hate mail practice letters.

There is a limited edition print run of 17 million copies and each and every one of them comes with a FREE DISEASE (I’m not telling you which one exactly but don’t scratch your privates or your lady garden).
I have struck a deal for this volume to be sold through all outlets of “Chest Infections Direct”, the walk in store where you can buy phlegm in bulk. Each copy sold will generate 0.0000000000000000000000000000000001 pence for “Save the Plankton” a cause close to my heart.
The picture is not to scale. Due to a minor publishing miscalculation the book is actually 2′ 6″ thick and in hindsight printing on Asbestos paper may not have been the best idea. Standard Postage is £33,768.
Remember….”Chest Infections Direct” – Your One Stop Shop for Coughs!
Words and Pictures © D. Archer . December 2015

Winter Wanderings

Whooooaaa! Hold your horses, you haven’t missed the apocalypse, these pictures are from my morning walk around my home town.

I’m lucky that the walk between my home and that of my mother takes me through a wooded area that is more interesting on deserted days like today than when it is swarming with humans.

I particularly like the ones where nature has started to reclaim the man made objects, the Lichen on the the litter bin and the way the tree has grown around the barbed wire.

I must admit to being a bit of a loner and the sense of emptiness and the forlorn has always held a particular fascination for me. Today with the poor light and sense of overcast weather is my type of day.


Words and Pictures © D. Archer. December 2015

Modern Landscapes


New Urban Landscape Design

I have decided to start a new school of photography called “Crapism“, now don’t be fooled by the name my photos really are crap but I do like the subject matter. These buildings and service objects won’t be around forever and I feel it is my duty to show them in all their supernal glory.

Long live Crapism!

All crap photographs © D. Archer. November 2015

The Northern Line

and the northern line heads north;
train and tarmac traverse forgotten agriculture
whilst against a dull horizon
the seeded rape in swathes of brushed yellow,
tractor scared, deep cut fields
frames, for a second,
the lightning split tree
that dares to bloom.

and the northern line heads north;
fleeting sheep being picturesque
cathedrals, greenery and greed juxtaposed,
the saintly and the secular
the modernist and the medieval
give way to cemeteries
filled with the unremarkable and the overgrown.

and the northern line heads north;
soon passed the ubiquitous supermarket,
factories and silos waiting to rust,
silent Sunday football pitches
scale modelled on the Somme under foot.

and the northern line heads north;
leaving hotels named after far away places,
a taunting to where you’d rather be
as more luggage and life stories
are tucked neatly above the sadness
that occupies every seat;

and the northern line heads north.

© D. Archer May 2014

Random Post

I heard that this song that was originally written by Jimi Hendrix in 1989 for his ill-fated Skegness Summer Spectacular “Vinyl Lionel and the Spunkettes”. In the audience that day, yes you guessed it was a certain young man from Seattle searching for a new direction, that man was no other than Barry Hillsberg (also known as Terrence Trent D’Arby, also known as Petula Clark, also known as Gladys Knight and the Pips). Barry was on holiday with his maiden aunt (who had one leg shorter than the other but that is of no significance) when, during an allergic reaction to some undercooked shellfish he experienced the future sound that would define a generation, confuse most old people, have the power to raise the dead and un-cook spaghetti. He likened the sound of this new music to “milk flowing from the nipples of virgin Unicorns” a term he would later come to regret as it had already been used by the Disney corporation in 1956 and they sued him for all his money and he died.

Rumours of his death were greatly misquoted and in the summer of 1993 Barry returned to his hallucinations to invoke the spirits of the shellfish he had eaten on that fateful Thursday afternoon. His maiden aunt (short legs, attractive for her age, seeks gentleman 60 plus for long walks on the dark side of the moon, non smoker, horse lover and BDSM threesomes) was not in the room.

In the quiet of the bedroom Barry began to lick his hamster in an attempt to enter a shamanic state of mind. Three fur balls later he put down the hamster and picked up the Colorado River toad his maiden aunt kept in her bedside table, next to that strange, ribbed, plastic candle that didn’t seem to have a bulb in it but which he could hear her trying to switch on every night, he concluded that there must be something wrong with the bulb because all it did was buzz. Barry was not very experienced at licking toads so first he paid it lots of compliments, bought it flowers, wrote poetry and sent her random expressions of love for three years before he got around to licking it. It was worth the wait, the toad agreed to marry Barry on the proviso that he never mentioned their night in Brighton to his maiden aunt.

Anyway, Barry began to trip, the lights were flashing rampant in his eyelids, cocooned in a wall of sound he began to see the grey outline of the shellfish walking towards him wearing a bowler hat. Barry knew there had to be something wrong, a bowler hat with brown loafers? Barry began to panic, this was a bad trip and he needed to get off. So he did.

It wasn’t until the summer of 1995 that Barry was able to talk about his experiences to “Hello” magazine for a huge amount of money and the first syndicated royalty rites to his upcoming marriage to the scale model of Liberace that his maiden aunt kept in her other bedside table (again no bulb all buzzing). Shortly after being forcibly ejected from the offices of “Hello” magazine Barry went on the run to avoid all the publicity and scandal of being branded left-handed.

Barry Hillsberg was a deep and confused man, his life was one made tragically longer when he had himself cryogenically frozen three weeks before he died, fortunately a power cut revitalised him, took ten years of his bald spot and cured his acne. Barry went on to describe his out-of-body experiences in his ninth autobiography “Im sorry but I forgot to mention this bit” and became a huge TV star in Iceland (the country not the Supermarket chain).

Barry Hillsberg (26), thinker, dreamer, drinker, poet, artist, vegetarian, amateur psychiatrist, underwear model and trainspotter died, eventually, by death in 2008. He couldn’t fit his intended epitaph on his headstone because it was only very small and it cot £3.78 per letter for the inscription (I know, £3.78) so his tombstone, under a small pile of syringes in Methadone corner of Westminster Abbey simply reads “BH. I’m dead. Feed cat”.

R.I.P. Barry Hillsberg. Shine on you crazy diamond. Which is what he did until he properly died in 2012, during the omnibus edition of Coronation Street. He wasn’t actually in the episode, he choked on a small Cheese and Onion flaky pastry Quiche. Found three days later by his maiden aunt she stole the money from his wallet and never returned his library books, fortunately Khama caught up with her in 2013 and she was shot whilst buying a Cheese and Onion flaky pastry Quiche at the petrol station across from her flat which was run, only part-time on an evening, by Sting.

Against Nature

One isolated bloom
in an unseasonal sun
defies the depth of nature
ignored by travellers
that aimlessly look
through condensation covered windows
on their overcrowded bus.

Gods gift of colour projected
against the tired and regressed;
concrete slab kerbstones and
sparse, dog fouled grass.

For a moment forgotten
is their cattle class condition
the microwave meal for one; the cat:
the depressing television.

Palm swipes away the mist
but quick drowned in the distance
the solitary spray that illuminates
their own road to perdition.

© D. Archer October 2011

I wonder

Do you take the money and run
or do you lay awake at night
crying at the thought of your
contractual colloquial column
lining countless incontinent kitten corners
before four o’clock
every friday night.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Answer my email.

Muscle Pulling

I can’t even pull a muscle
on a tragic Saturday night;
even I come off second best
in my own one handed fight.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011