Why must we cut down a tree to count the years it lived

I write to stave off the reality
that somewhere between sex and death
what prevails is the un-erased;

I exist as an orphan to time served
and as ironic as the bird
that has come to love its cage.

© D. Archer. January 2013.

My Gravity

Beneath your ivory skin
lies treasure worth hunting,
your pale blue eyes
leave me helpless; wanting;

we submit; mouth to lips
I caress your seductive lines;
I forget to breathe
your heaven scent; sublime;

My silent screamer
my breathless dreamer
I am my distance run
I am tonight spent; weaker;

I am a mere moth
to your supernova
captivated by your lustre
I remain your willing: forgiving;
forever distant lover.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Polaroid Pleasures

Vengeful in her car
with the CD I’d bought her
she threw it at me and
sped off in the night air;

That was the last time
we were a couple
and in burning my clothes
she sent a message not subtle;
to all the world
she posted on-line
pictures of my penis tagged
“useless swine!”

It could have been worse,
I chose not to bother
at least I had the video
of me and her mother.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Living in a rather depressed part of Barnsley on a busy main road, with the windows open you get to see and hear all kinds of humans. I live in an attic room and the window is perfect for watching whilst remaining unseen.
I wrote this one late summer evening, the argument was fierce and brief and dejected I watched the young man stand bemused for a moment as his girlfriend sped off in her car. This is my imagined conversation. 

The girl who garotted Google

You typed,
in italic capital letters;

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

Wellington Street woes

Saturday Night,
Sunday Morning,
I am gawping at women
who should come with a warning;
battered fake eye lashes
smudged, neon coloured lips
I’d still come up sucking my thumb
on this street full of tits.
Tops too small
and layers of fake tan
no mirrors
no mates and
certainly no mam
to tell her that love
is not all about looks
and that telly without pictures
is called reading a book.
I’m old enough to be her dad
she looks and laughs and points
its sad;
maybe I’ve had too much to drink
but her teenage bravado
makes me think
“Why am I here? Why do I do this”
a chip is not a contract
it doesn’t mean I’ll get a kiss.
She asks me for a fag as well
pretends she wants to pay;
hook line and sinker
I believe the eyes
and wave her hand away.
She forgets me sooner
than the smoke leaves her lips
and she’s on to the next bloke
who’s got much bigger chips and
it’s hard to explain
to someone wearing just a belt
that I am deeper than a puddle
and my intentions heartfelt.
She could have been my future bride
if she’d only talked and put down her pint
so I hover in hope
she will notice my smile
and if the Gods are not cruel
we’ll talk for a while but I
say something maudlin about
my ex-wife and kids
and she turns to her friends
who downs the whole of her drink.
She doesn’t even say goodbye
but leaves me floundering in the crap of my life;
it’s just not fair,
it’s just not right
that my ground-hog days
have become my ground-hog nights;
still worse I turn around to find
that ten thousand eyes
watched her burn me alive.
I dismiss my chance to be witty
like George Bernard Shaw
so under my drunken breath I mumble
“ugly, stupid, whore”
and the night draws dawn
and standards get lowered
but I can only pull a wank
in a freezing cold shower;
looking at pictures
of other readers wives;
coming to conclusions
that this is my life.

I can’t help reading this poem to myself in a strange Manchester / Salford accent in tribute to a great punk poet and inspiration of mine John Cooper Clarke. Check out his poetry especially my favourite “Readers Wives” 

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011