Like Larkin

I’m often prone to outbursts of poetry. I really should learn how to write it.  

  Lost in translation. 

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

I’m not dead (physically)

Tree of Hope, Locke Park, Barnsley.

It’s been a while but due to the useless shenaningans on Instagram I’ve decided to post loads of my recent crap doodles back up on here. Apologies in advance if i’ve posted stuff before but think yourself lucky I can be bothered at all.
Enjoy, or don’t, I’m not fussed. Everything listed is mine, mine, mine I tell you!! Steal it and I will find you and bore you to death with stories of coal mining in Yorkshire.

© D. Archer. July 2017

The Ballad of Henry Hughes

There once was a girl
from north of the border
who sent me money by postal order
and though I couldn’t wash her pans or pots,
touch her blankets or door knobs,
she touched my life from miles away
and I miss her
like it was yesterday.

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© D. Archer. January 2016

Birdsong

From the wrong side of the slow burned bridge,
at the edge of the rook black wood,
where giant thoughts used to dwell
she makes no plans for tomorrow
as she picks flowers for her daily grave.

The house, quiet as a failing marriage
stands alone in a bleached, peeling memory
under water coloured clouds.

She weeps for the summers passing,
the shortest of shadows
and the length of his kiss.

© D. Archer. March 2015.

I’m not OK Cupid

Be Prepared!

Be Prepared!

I’m not OK Cupid.

Days like today make me realise that it is perfectly OK not to be OK. Celebrate our differences and accept our idiosyncrasies my arse. Nobody wants a relationship with someone who lists their quirks as “bestiality and defrauding the tax office on a massive scale”.

My personal profile reads, “I am short, fat, 46, shit with money and prone to bouts of depression”, a brief but accurate description of myself. Needless to say this has not endeared me to the masses nor brought me fame and adoration from all corners of the globe.

I have tried, (insert preferred deity) I have tried but the fact of the matter remains the same, my life is exasperatingly dull. I wake, I work, I over eat carbohydrates and I sleep. My life is a veritable catalogue of things not to do with your time on this rock. I have travelled very little, my refrigerator is unadorned with exotic magnets that have have place and emotions woven into them (apparently the energy efficiency sticker does not count and is a poor substitute for the vista from above Mach Picchu). There are no anecdotal photographs dotted around my living room depicting past lives or close friends in riotous holiday poses captured on yellow edged paper. I don’t, I just don’t.

I am a difficult person, I can be stand offish, aloof and even just plain ignorant but when you’re in, you’re in; I am loyal like a dog, an unconditional lover because you are a friend, a family member, a pet or a cactus.

I hope this days brings a connection for someone, somewhere. Personally I am looking forward to February 27th which is “International Tidy your Sock Drawer Day”, can’t wait to see how many cards I get. For me it’s time to move, mentally and physically and try to love like a verb.

Oh and in case you are wondering, I don’t have a profile on OK cupid did you not read the above?

© D. Archer. February 2015

Anonymous

Love lies in the roughest sea,
in the smallest hours,
in a one oared boat,
not in the anonymous promises
of those that lure in calm waters
as sirens circle in the undertow;
soon the unwinding begins
the rope that proffers salvation
forms a seductive silk noose around your neck
and be it by category or allegory
the search for your lungs in another
will only one day leave you
out of breath.

© D. Archer. January 2013. Tweaked in February 2015.

The dawn bleaches out the dream

Twice I have held the world in my arms,
in November and late July,
before the carousel slowed,
before the photographs fell silent.

It’s not the presence
but the void,
it’s not the new
but the old I watch
hand tied and dumb
through a window ajar
but not enough to grasp.

We walked a fine line
between memory and lies
when nothing was wrong
everything was hidden
just beneath the surface
tension and tears lingered;
all memories now,
smaller than the space between rain,
made colder by an arm’s length.

© D. Archer. January 2015