Biography of David Archer
My name is David Archer and I have too many words in my head that keep me awake at night.
I am 43, male, divorced, have two children and one imaginary cat called “Alan”.
I live alone in Barnsley, South Yorkshire, England.
Barnsley is not on Google Maps.
I hate and love Barnsley at the same time.
I like looking at trees.
I like looking at electricity pylons.
I swear a lot.
My cactus is called Wayne.
I adore Spike Milligan, Tommy Cooper, Tony Hancock, Carry On films.
I wonder why abbreviation is such a long word.
I lost three socks last week. Three!
I am a fan of poetry especially Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes; which is good really because they were married and this means I can buy half as many books.
I write down words that come into my head.
I like long words and short difficult words.
I have more tattoos than I have arms.
I do not profess to be any good at writing poetry.
My favourite word is Dodecahedron.
My favourite mathematical equation is:
f1(x) y(x) + f2(x) y((ax - ß) /(x + b)) + f3(x) y((bx + ß) /(a - x)) = g(x) , ß = a2 + ab + b2.
I do not believe in GOD but I know he believes in me otherwise he wouldn’t keep putting words in my head.
I like The Smiths, Joy Division, The Jam, John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Theolonious Monk, The Housemartins, The Beautiful South, Echo and the Bunnymen.
The internet is not big enough to list all my other interests.
I have friends who I can ring at any time of the day or night.
I have a bad back and small feet.
My favourite colour is Black, BLACK! BLACK! BLACK! like my soul! (actually it’s Yellow)
David Archer's Works:
None, for very good, obvious reasons.
David Archer Poems
Cold Tea And Sympathy
As the television played to an empty room we fell apart in the kitchen; cups of untouched, unsuguared conversation
The Once Window
The once window stares back, a solemn reminder, a plastered gap of unmatched brick on brick;
Every time you see a tree remember his love for you numbered ten times
My Madness, My Misstress
Once more I pause paralysed on the edge of my man-made abyss; echoes of my past
Too scared to release all the butterflies not man enough to deal with the one that remained; though no silver tongued serpent I
Colder On The Inside
The distance between them lay new carpet like, professionally flat, measured in expensive metres; each stood on the edge of
The Cinder Path
The touch of my own hand draws weary, long gone the soft skin of another that would in street or field squeeze between my ungloved fingers
Come Back To Me
Come back to me, before we fell apart on opposite sides of the same silence; crowd the room with conversation and drape a blanket of dreams over tomorrow in a show of strength
As new disciples gather to proffer idyllic adoration and marvel at the neck of the virgin swan, be mindful of those that bring nothing to the table
Party Of One
From the corner of the room where even the shadows hide from themselves, along with the remains of the day and everything worth saying, I stand
One Minute Memory
Between the ordinary and the ornate in an unloved, lidless tin box countless, fading, tired and clichéd cards untroubled his passing thumb until
Norway Is A Long Way Away
Shin deep in the North Sea far from the arms of the beach warm towels and your smile, I stood skimming stones at Norway
You Have Two Ears For A Reason
We say the most with our mouth shut;
Akin a cageless mockingbird after she bathes she sings to a room full of reminders where our horizon met its end and
you see a tree
remember his love for you
numbered ten times
"But", I hear you say;
"Trees have no leaves in Winter
and like my life it is barren and bare";