Fun with sharp objects on a Sunday.
Actually that’s a lie, I cut this a few days ago and then printed it and then forgot to upload it. Metaphors for my life abound.
This time I managed only 4 copies before I got a decent print which is vast improvement on my latest effort and no actual blood was spilled in the making of this image which again is a vast improvement on my latest effort.
Im sure there’s a poem about a bleeding heart brewing but my natural procrastinating tendencies prevent me from doing two pieces of artistic endeavour in one day. Maybe Winter 2016.
Less to follow.
Blood © D.Archer. March 2015
Where the ice was thick they laughed,
where it was thin she felt alive;
her soft spoken dreams
tempted him further from the edge until
her last smile,
stripped of sentiment,
swollen with bitter black lies
fused with the blood that pooled beneath the man
she once called home.
Within the hour
he would be a stranger to her every thought;
the smothering snow would heal the cracks
seamlessly behind her.
© D. Archer. October 2014.
From the Hamlets
to the have-nots they come to feast
on the early seasons’ breeding;
beaten into breaking cover,
tradition, vague as the mist,
is lip service for the brochure;
the slap panic of wings
heralds the rising of the low slung stock.
The futile silhouette falls,
not stalked with one arrow
a day in the making
or one bullet priced above saffron
but by proliferation, triangulation,
muscle memory and an expensive Italian
that appeases their blood lust
by favourable odds.
Sport lies in an equal opponent.
© D. Archer. July 2014
ripped from within
the very valves of
It was never my intention
for you to grieve
for the distance I created
I poured out blood
like water yes;
no desire reader to
reduce you to tears;
it was my heart she broke
so seek solace,
let love in;
by telling it
all your fears.
© D. Archer October 2011