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

Adrift

The course to sail under the same stars
in time, unfolded,
never to be ours;
who pushed
who pulled
is immaterial now;
at the end of the day
we both drowned.

© D. Archer. August 2016.

New Poetry Anthology

Need-Some-Milk-CoverIn 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

New Poetry Collection

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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.

Sketchbook

Has it always been like this?
inside this low, living headache
where everyone is closed or taken;
where the pressure is blinding
and the quiet assumptions are the worst.

The mirror lies,
I’m not the only one in this room
as the argument begins
“What lies beneath my ink stained skin?”