Scatalogue

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

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The Loneliness of the Long Distance Lover

You’re never alone if you have a cat. I don’t have a cat.

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.

Adventures of my imaginary cat

Here is a collection of photographs of my imaginary cat Alan and his two friends Hector and Chester. These photographs were taken shortly before they went on their holidays. They were not pleased at being made to sit still, not pleased at all.

© D. Archer. October 2015.

Cabbage! Cat! Underpants! Lampshade!

I can write
whatever I like
I am in the top left box
featured on WordPress’
Poetry Page;

Cabbage!
Cat!
Underpants!
Lampshade!

I am atop the top bananas
bask you mortals in my lofty reflection
I have achieved poetic Nirvana;
poetry personified in four lines of perfection!

Cabbage!
Cat!
Underpants!
Lampshade!

Read them and weep
my gigantic pontifications
knows not of earthly bounds;

Read them!
Bleed them!
For I
am the true voice
of all poetry
now!

Calm down, its only a box.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

You know you want to. You know your desire burns inside you every time you post. We prostitute ourselves to the little box top left of the Featured Poetry Page. If you do not get this poem, you do not get me. Please un-subscribe.

The girl who garotted Google

You typed,
in italic capital letters;
“I AM LOOKING FOR PICTURES
OF GINGER COLOURED CATS
RIDING HATLESS ON MOTORBIKES;
DRAWN BY A KITE FLYING
MANIC DEPRESSIVE STRANGER
WHO TRAVELS ABOUT BY TRAIN
AND WHO DOES NOTHING
BUT COMPLAIN”;

Google broke;
it never got to my page.

With this simple sentence
you brought a worldwide gaggle of googlers
apoplectic to their knees;
wondering why their small bar
was not downloading
every sex related JPEG
in the history of the P.C.

If they all knew where you lived
they would kill you every Jack to a man;
fortunate then they were rendered useless
by their ankle warming trousers
and lubricated left hands.

Google cowers in its monolithic tower
it has never really been the same;
waiting, shaking, praying and calculating
you never type your name in again.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Poetry is hard

Determined to write poetry
on my homeward bound train,
just to prove a point to myself
and to exercise my brain.

I borrowed some paper
and on my knee rested;
although jolted I jotted
down images suggested
that quickly turned hackneyed and trite,
so I stopped writing poetry
and drew a cat on a motorbike.

 © Copyright D. Archer October 2011