Tambourine Jazz Solo
Looking for love
Looking for love
Here are some leftovers from my Instagram account. Regretably everything is of my own creation. Don’t steal, it’s not nice. Stuff ranges from new books I’m working on to the plight of the lonely idiot, a homage to Ronald Searle, a picture of a cat and the album of my alter ego “Roy Morbidson” where I play 96 hours of my own melancholic solo Jazz tambourine compositions.
© D. Archer. July 2017
I have been working on a number of children’s books lately and have sent them off to 17 million publishers around the world, five of them have been sent back in flames and two of them were just doused in bodily fluids of unnamed origin.
© D. Archer. July 2017
Physical interaction is hard to come by these days so I have resorted to touching boobs in books in Public Libraries, I am so ashamed of the print quality.
©D.Archer July 2017 (the words and finger, not the picture)
Yak Milking for Fun and Profit
Have you ever wanted to Milk a Yak for fun and profit? I know have, so I wrote this book to help with my mental disorder.
The book is 1,497 pages long, has 9 photographs (4 of them are in focus) and 2 drawings which shouldn’t be show to anyone under 21.
©D.ARCHER. JULY 2017
In 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
In order to raise some cash I have gone into the exciting world of paper book publishing.
For my first venture I have teamed up with the esoteric poet and performance artist Adolf Von U-Boat.
This poem entitled “Black clouds over Berlin” was written in 2014.
I once saw a girl from Skegness
In various states of undress
as she sat on the beach
the sight of her peach
set my pacemaker off in distress.
Adolf was born in Barnsley in 1946 shortly after his parents arrived from Germany. His mother (also called Adolf) died of shock at seeing Barnsley Markets in 1947 and young Adolf was brought up under the wrathful gaze of his father Heinrich.
Adolf’s early life in Barnsley was difficult to say the least, his left-handedness and film star good looks made him an easy target on the mean streets of Smithies. Locked away in his bedroom Adolf dreamed of being a writer and so he learned to write as this was a valuable skill in becoming a writer.
Then he became a priest and other stuff happened to him.
Only now have his 17 million poems been discovered in his attic and Volume One is available to buy from all good bookshops (but not on-line, Adolf thinks the Internet is run by a team of secret Leprechauns that steal your fingernails when you are asleep)
Words and pictures © D. Archer. December 2015.
As new disciples gather
in idyllic adoration
to marvel at the neck of the virgin swan,
be mindful of those that bring nothing to the table
but want everything in return;
be careful who next petitions your heart,
sail through their paper-thin veiled verbs
and as you search
remember the last mast
you bound your colours to
was broken beyond
even you to nurse.
© D. Archer. September 2012. Tweaked February 2015
Green Tea Philosophy
There must be something in the water. I wrote this shortly after drinking my mid morning cup of green “gunpowder” tea which was very nice but disappointingly not very explosive.
Philosophy © D. Archer 2014.
In the tunnel
between the cheap radio signal
and the windscreen’s respite from the rain
I hear you talking like an auctioneer,
singing your song in the first person
of a new love that
of all others will erase.
You stockpile your metaphors and memories
in fear and apprehension
for lover too soon fades into friend,
just as the moon pulls the tides from the beach
we are all waiting for something,
be it beginning,
© David Archer. June 2013
The distance between them lay
new carpet like, professionally flat,
measured in expensive metres;
each stood on the edge of
the picked clean carcass of
polite conversation that harboured
sharp submerged memories
loud enough to slam doors
long since locked and keyless;
The forgotten bottled years of “Love”
they had gathered and labelled in small words
“Expires when we run out of life”
prematurely cracked and uncorked
it revealed a picture of two strangers,
each holding a wound,
each holding a knife.
© D. Archer. October 2012