steven cooke, 18 czerwca 2013
I am a successful surgeon
but In reality I am a failure.
For I pay for the company of life.
I pay to be human,
pay for the understanding
that my patients receive for free.
I am the geek in the corner
the wall paper that eyes don’t see.
My bond is with god
for he shows me his creation
and I must correct his mistakes.
Vanity is to say such things
but the sick will come to my door.
They gamble that I could be a saviour
for fear is anointed by hope.
The good and the bad
will sell their convictions.
My hand can cheat
the cards which have been dealt,
and my face belongs to
this poker game,
we call life.
I am the fall guy too
who will walk down the corridor to hopeful eyes.
But remember where there is god
the devil exists too
and you will judge me.
For I must bare my soul
in the darkness of defeat
that tells your relatives that I lost.
I failed to grab the hand of life
which held the royal flush
that no player can defeat,
and I will feel your doubts
that perhaps I am not
the perfect prophet you thought me to be.
In truth I am a glorified mechanic.
I am the surgeon that repairs your vices,
I am the bloody hands that remove your pain.
I can make you beautiful
I can change your heart,
though I need the sacrifice of the departed to help.
And when age threatens your life
money will save the chosen few,
In the illusion of immortality.
Though time will always be the clown
that will always laugh at you in the mirror.
I am a tinker of time
who fears the night.
I shake hands with the dead,
receive tributes from the living
and somewhere in between I see the dawn.
Sanity is a lonely place for me.
My indiscretion is grateful for her apartment
for I need her beauty to take away today
and a shower to wash away mankind.
She removes my pain with love
so I can feel human from this butchers table.
Sodom and Gomorra’s a small price to pay
for my patients to see
the sun for one more day.
God never gave me good looks
but he gave me a steady hand.
A hand that can caress your heart
for I am a maverick that puzzles him.
In truth I could be a monster,
I will not cry when you die.
Blood is just another day,
though I hate to lose
as all gamblers will tell you.
But who amongst you would care
about a stranger who gives you life.
For in truth even the devil
would make me a hero,
as long as I save a sinners life.
steven cooke, 6 czerwca 2013
Soldiers Thoughts
(World War One)
Memory is our contribution to life
and sleep the eternal dream.
This voice of youth has one last breath
and we give it to you.
My comrade’s corpse will be forgotten
like the ash from generals cigar.
Our blood will pour to fill their ambitions,
So sweet is the vintage they consume
at Christ’s table this night.
The claret of soldier boys
will oil the guns this day,
and prayers will be sent
In the glory of our annihilation.
The lines on the map grow restless.
The horses all know their fate,
for the rot of progress is in the air.
Our preachers gather their crosses,
we fight in the name of God.
But who does God fight for?
Is mercy beyond his gaze?
Was this his plan?
To create the widows vale
that descends upon the son of man.
Is a soldier to see the face of God?
Through eyes that burn in a yellow mist
breathed on by fallen angels.
Whose kiss causes him to gurgle
for fear he tells the truth.
Tells the truth,
to the last believer on earth.
Futility rules this slaughter,
we are the waste of nature.
Men and boys are but leaves
ordained to fall in the winds of war.
There is no sanctuary from the guns
that spew their rain of death.
It digests us all.
Sins and good deeds forgotten.
In retribution they take vengeance
on we, the poor souls below.
There is no dignity to be found here,
Only death in corrupted mud.
Life is the enemy
and reason the sword.
We are a disposable commodity,
and this land will feast upon us.
Mothers of England
let your children play.
For tomorrow they will come
to make angels on earth.
This generation will haunt the sky.
Sculptured in the storm clouds that gather
and you will see your son.
For that is where your boy resides.
Free from the sins of man,
free from the fear of war.
And your tears will remember him,
“Jack “, who was, your little boy.
steven cooke, 18 kwietnia 2013
No poppies for madam
that privilege is reserved
for the common man.
Drape her coffin with Union jack
though there is no union for me.
Your guard of honour is expecting you,
made from the empty shell of boys
who left their dreams on Falkland hill.
This life that you once held
will be remembered .
The miner’s bones will see your corpse
for death came to them with broken heart,
their blood was washed away
and community was lost of hope
In the weeping’s of a crying pit.
The taste of rabbit stew
still stays upon my lips,
for I shared my bread with neighbours,
while boys in blue waved five pound notes
and beat their shields in rhyme,
for they were truly, Maggie’s whores.
This common man seeks redemption for you
but forgiveness is for God to give.
These pearly gates that your spirit seeks
among the hymns that praise this earth
are but remnants of the pit gates
and in their rust they are jammed shut to you.
The chosen few were Maggie’s men
their daggers have been cleaned of blood.
The wits will praise your passing,
A final toast to Caesar,
“she came, she saw, she conquered”
but in truth they know,
the evils of today still carry your mark.
Iron lady your soul will seek the light
But your light went out long ago
during the Devils reign.
Lost in the furnace of men
lost in the pride of England.
And now your service has ended
redundancy killed you too.
Your victories have gone into history
but Steel and coal
and the grafters of England
will never forgive you.
steven cooke, 30 marca 2013
Chained to these walls of despair
I was condemned by a Judas race.
Assassins’ wait on every corner
hiding in the lights of man
looking for my face.
To be last of your species is a lonely place
in loneliness everyone’s your enemy,
my existence violates this earth.
I am demonised by children not yet born
for I am Auschwitz I am war,
I am the monster behind your door.
Cremation is ordained upon my soul
the future dies when cities burn.
Life gives way to extinction
but the last rights give way to destiny
for the dragon has one last legacy.
Lead me to your abattoir
and take my dignity.
My scales will provide a heroes shield
this blood will give you courage.
Take these eyes made of jade
but do not look too close
for I may possess you.
Artisans take my teeth
record my sins in scrimshaw
for I have flown amongst you.
Memories laid down in human bone
for the samurai has felt my breath
and his god has knelt before me.
Immortality now gives way to fairy tales
Dragons used to frighten children
for it is all you have,
to protect them from reality.
Though some will grow
to envy me.
The truth of mankind
lies on the artists brush
Skilfully mixing your colours of deceit.
Dragons are not your heroes
your excuse, you were following orders.
The dragon is the darkest secret of mankind,
in your actions I became the executioner
and you a plague of demons
that washed my soul away.
But always remember,
when you look into the fire
there will always be a dragon
looking back at you.
Waiting to reclaim his throne
from the demons that exist in you.
steven cooke, 22 marca 2013
To walk in dreams
upon this vale of illusion.
Each footstep of your being
crossing the labyrinth
of a shy but guilty soul.
Sleep can be your witness
As Galaxies collide creating life
for we all belong to infinity.
That place beyond our imagination
where the darkness hides
a beauty not meant for human eyes.
Reality is the myth
for you now walk with gods.
This world is a reflection of you
where water and mirror are one.
The shimmer of a distorted face
lies on the see saw of humanity.
The light you inherit
the darkness you manufacture.
But in death at least
your priest will lie for you.
Life is but a feather
It glides through the winds of time.
Sometimes rising to your endeavour
more often it is a passenger
falling on a broken wing.
But no matter
your feather is immortal.
For it caresses the meanings
of such wonderful things
and you beat the odds to be you.
Morning brings a pencilled rubber
the mind will leave this page.
and somewhere in the universe
another being will dream,
of things beyond this human race.
steven cooke, 8 marca 2013
(please note dunners are debt collectors)
(Netto is a low cost supermarket)
In these isles of cheap illusion
the kids run free,
screaming for the sugar of childhood.
While their mother walks on
down wine bottle lane,
to escape life’s demons
for one more day.
The shells of beings look
but do not see.
Part time lives
in worn out trainers
minimum wage to stretch,
their withered faces
all smart price packed,
on another out of date trolley.
Buy one get one free,
a horse burger is a burger
a person is a person.
Each hiding themselves from the world,
Incognito in a world of poverty.
Tomorrow the kids will cry
each will find their jail.
The weight of despair
will sentence their lives
In these streets
You will find a different kind of humanity.
Where social security
hears the dunners knock
and boredom leads to exotic dreams,
wrapped up in foil of rainbow brown.
We all crave the womb
for the world cannot reach us there.
And behind the curtain
the detritus of existence survives.
Old men in young men’s clothes
with regret filled veins
counting the burglars sin
as the blue light of night closes in.
The child becomes a woman
and woman carries the pain.
Another babe born
the hand of indifference
grabs another box
Of powdered baby milk,
for family allowance is her work.
Life belongs to an electric token
and a chip pan of joy
her disfiguring pleasure in life.
These are the isles
where no one has a name
complete with a special offer of sadness.
Existence is a hangover for under a fiver
for this is the sum of life.
and no one will take away
this credit on society
our triple (A) rating of poverty.
steven cooke, 24 lutego 2013
Imagination is the river
that guides the quill.
Dreams the sailing ship
that unleashes the voyage
through the pages of a poets mind.
To write is to find
the meaning of love.
Where beauty opens the gate,
to a never ending yellow brick road
Of human emotion.
For that is what we seek.
The pen can create gods
and mortal frailty.
Sunshine is the span of life,
darkness is forever
and within these letters
we find immortality.
Beauty is found in pain
hope is an emerald sea,
envy comes from Oscar’s words
and belief becomes a prejudice.
The pen will drown your epitaph
for the Cyclops knows his destiny
Words can be a jigsaw of fears,
Or a rose sculptured in the heart.
All belong to confession,
trapped in the confetti of poems
which hide behind a harlequin mask
though a poets heart,
is for all to see
steven cooke, 23 lutego 2013
Imagination is the river
that guides the quill.
Dreams the sailing ship
that unleashes the voyage
through the pages of
a poets mind.
To write is to find
the meaning of love.
Where beauty opens the gate,
to a never ending yellow brick road
Of human emotion.
for that is what we seek
The pen can create gods
and mortal frailty.
Sunshine is the span of life,
the darkness is forever
and within these letters
we find immortality.
The candle burns when sanity sleeps
authors are laid fallow
when the desert refuses to create.
Scribbling among the midnight ghouls
caught in the faith of their conviction.
Love is the demon when curtains close
and the rose a symbol
Of what might have been.
Whiskey is the oil for some
that guides the brush.
For love is their canvass,
the bleeding soul their paint
and only the heart knows
the colour of these falling tears.
For when the bottle is empty
when the heart can take no more.
Our soul bleeds over the page
solace comes from tomorrow
and our insanity will take its place
Beauty is found in pain
hope is an emerald sea,
envy comes from Oscar’s words
and belief becomes a prejudice.
The pen will drown your epitaph
for the Cyclops knows his destiny
The poets of the world
so sweet is your fruit.
yet you remain anonymous
for life is but a dream.
Words are a jigsaw of fears,
a confession trapped
in the confetti of poems
Which you shout to the world
all judged in the courts of obscurity.
The book is now written
all have prostituted their existence
the devil has been cleansed
This sweet apple has been examined
The fruit has turned into despair.
Whiskey has turned to wine
the ark of life belongs to silence,
this gallery has no visitors.
So stay drunk in your bed tonight
Words are best left in dreams
and be glad that your life
will dissolve into obscurity.
These are the final words of life,
for the poet has no such luxury
our pain is for all to see.
steven cooke, 15 lutego 2013
(An interview with a vampire)
A grain of sand was once my rock
this rock was once my life
and life was but a story,
lost in the nurseries of time.
The shadows you see
cannot be trusted,
the sun bleeds red in shame
fleeing to another realm,
for it is time for me to reign.
I who have seen
the doors of time close
on ambitions of kings
and paupers dreams.
Decay and deceit
all pay homage to me,
behind this curtain of immortality.
Immortality that sweetly came
under the shadow of justice gallows.
Exiled out of reach of Christ,
my saviour an angel of the night.
Her kiss of darkness
my redemption from life.
Life is now a memory
no fear upon my lips.
Only light can bar my way
for darkness is where I play.
To fly in freedom
on ancient winds
I watch the living go by.
For thirst is mine
and beauty is wine
my sip will find a love.
The sharpness of soured grapes
will ripen the darkness,
my kiss will quench the soul
for my heart does not beat for life.
And love will be
an image of God
that mirrors cannot find.
I will be the valentine
concubines my queen
and together we will lurk
amongst this vineyard of blood
salivating on what we see.
Humanity will soon be ripe
fermenting in their illusions of life,
your shadows are destined for me.
Room temperature and decanted right
for tonight I have a gracious bite.
Death will come in empty glass
for sleep will find no blood.
Your existence will not be wasted
for the night now owns your soul.
The stars will be you’re only light
and another victim will die this night.
steven cooke, 10 lutego 2013
A poem about World War 1.
(Ich tötete is German for I killed)
(J’ai tue is French for I killed)
(Yellow mist refers to Mustard Gas)
Not for them
this poem of life
for the pen is full of blood.
Writing the names of yesterday
on lichen memorials
washed by the tears
Of these forgotten years.
Not for them
a sunny day
only shadows from the cross.
Hiding their faces from tomorrow.
Stored in this warehouse of silence,
kept secret by churches reverence.
Not for them
to burn this candle of innocence
their light was sold for war.
To search out death in no man’s land
for machine gun and snipers hand.
Not for them
the words of love or the gift of flowers
for only poets can pick their dreams.
No nightingales and moonlit nights
or gentle caress upon the shore.
For death is but a moment,
Inspiration dies,
with the pain in soldiers eyes.
Not for them
to sleep in peace
or to wake to mothers bread.
Only memories of a yellow mist,
for the banshees longs to be kissed.
Not for them
to lie to God
to say we did not kill.
For in death they can all say
Ich tötete, J'ai tué, I killed.
We who came from Eden,
are now comrades in heaven.
Not for them
to know the future
for we see only the graves.
Let this be our peace,
less we forget the meaning of war.
And pray historians will never write again,
with a pen full of blood, this poem,
Not for them.
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