The Black Ladder

On my whistle
up the black ladder boys
as you pass the camera
for those back home; smile;

smile, happy tommy pals
with your trench-foot,
mud and deaf
blind out of sight;

let newsreels not real news
disguise your monstrous plight.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

However a lover lies

“I do not lie”;
he lied to his wife;
“No half truths
will ever leave my lips”;
He hung up the handset
and to the greener grass
he turned lovingly
and kissed;

Even you lie to your lover
most of all the time;
however, you really don’t
need to say a word;
they can always read it
in your eyes.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011 

I know your dirty little secret

Do you know what
insomniac, pessimistic,
small fat blokes do
when they question
their own blogs success?;

they write sardonic emails
off to the help desk people
who work tirelessly for
WordPress.

I asked a question;
they quickly answered me;
every time you log into
your own blog you
delude yourself
about your popularity;

Checking in to check
your dashboard
counts as another click
but not when you wander around
your own blog after
you have logged in.

So;
insomniac small fat bloke now subtracts
the number of posts he has made
plus the number of times
he has logged in
and one small fat bloke
watches his world come
crashing in.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

This was my own genuine query to the very nice WordPress helpdesk the other day.
To get a true figure of visitors you must subtract the number of posts you have made plus the number of times you have just logged in or even just visited your own blogg to check the little counter box from your Favourites Toolbar Shortcut thingy. These count as visits. Once you are logged in however you can wander around you own site and nothing is recorded. I knew I wasn’t this popular, I have managed to piss on my own chips yet again, for three days I was happy. 

Telling lies to my dog

The dog sits up;
she needs no sound
to hear you come;
she is tuned to your footsteps
and to the door she runs;
Nothing; only echoes,
I avoid her expectant eyes;
ashamed of myself
to stoop so low
as to tell my dog a lie.
“It must have been the wind”;
“A leaf against the window”,
she turns; she looks
and wags her tail
as if this will ease my sorrow.
She knows I know
that you lay on a foreign shore;
I know she knows
it wasn’t your footsteps
outside the windswept door.
again she turns; again she looks
as she skulks into the other room,
she brings to me
her favourite ball
and for one second
I forget you.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011