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steven cooke, 18 june 2013
A Flawed Prophet
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, 12 july 2016
Soul Mate
I know that this person was born to Phorcy and Ceto. The purpose of this write is about symbolism and the power of this individual. Nothing is real and I hope that the viewer can take what ever message they wish. A single Malt, well tasted, and a beautiful Versace belt inspired this.
In forgotten dreams
a lonely phoenix gives its last breath
to birth an ancient spell.
An egg that is forged from her heart
This last act of innocence
Will gives hope to
a love caged in a world,
surrounded by winters cold.
Silently love waits for the fires lament
that will free a shimmering soul.
An apparition of emotion
searching for a hand that may not exist,
fuelled only by hope and desire.
This spell that was born in royal veins
corrupted with ancestors curse ,
conspires to cheat the reapers hand.
For life is suspended.
Beauty is in league with time,
her decay is absorbed by the mirror
that deceives the dandies puff.
A mirror that we all possess.
No claims from the souls inside
Only a united bond that peers into paradise.
Reflections of the truth are frozen,
for statues are dry of tears
and the birds of love stare back in silence,
destined to find no mate.
Creation must till this soil forward
for the stars were born to life.
The darkness where she resides
is but a stormy night.
And tomorrow will bring the light.
The beating wings of myth perfumes her chamber
with the smell of dragons dare.
The soul of youth this warmth of man,
resides behind these turquoise eyes
of the last seed of a noble race.
Desire and passion feed the furnace within
But love turns breath into summers wind
and the earth is stirred to life
A molten stream from an unborn star
Rages forth from a barren womb
And the heat of desire cracks the egg
that brings pardon to this birth
Gods awaken, their crowns go dim
As Eve rises slowly
born to taste a golden fire .
One kiss from his virgin lips
and her heart will beat again,
To be the first to see this Eve
Is written in the mirror
To look into her eyes
A secret love revealed
The joy of tasting an angels soul
the marriage of hearts as one.
But touch her face and gather her stare
And love will seek the truth
For Eve will pay her dues
Love is found in the seconds of the clock
And loneliness is forever
She belongs to humanities dream
of Romeo and lovers grief.
Dragons kiss will feel her heart
These seconds of ecstasy will shed his wings
The warmth of life is ticking.
and now the key is turning.
A dragon chained by love,
can never be free
and he became her crystal.
A royal statue to a lover’s dream
Whose kingdom she commands.
Snared in a dream forever
He will find no cold in love.
All will spend eternity
gazing upon their goddess
Enslaved by the reflection in the mirror
And what of Eve .
Tears of snow turn into ice
as the heat of life subsides.
The cry of phoenix
Remembered in the prism of light
While the silence of death continues to call ,
hidden In the darkness between the Stars
And the gods will pay tribute in statue
To a woman that gods and mortals cannot touch
Where beauty resides forever
In a heart protected by the stars and the shimmer
Upon the pool of life.
And her name will be the last soul to die
For she is Medusa
Queen of all that we love.
steven cooke, 22 july 2016
When the guns go silent
God cannot intervene in sovereignty
and the boy will plead no innocence.
Seedlings cannot control the wind,
in birth the Oak has called their name
a command from the forest unseen.
A biblical sandstorm unleashed by unworthy souls
Will scatter this seed
that a millennium of kings could not see.
Time demands the old to look away
For Medusa’s face will give the peace.
Hope now resides in young men’s eyes
and the currency at stake is dreams.
These are the orders of man.
As the desert celebrates the rain with life
and the Eskimo gives reverence to flesh.
That is the natural dignity of things
It was this harmony that created the ark,
a speck of light in the darkness
that gives meaning to the stars above.
But war is the Cancer unseen
flowing in the veins of weeds with mortal power.
Weeds whose future is locked in vaults unseen
hypnotised by the allure of possession
hiding their gluttony in papers power.
A confession that only the executor will see.
The poor will be tried in combat,
existence will see them fall.
To defend history with mothers child,
and use our great Cities to forge
the end with steel and bullet.
All bought with Slaver’s wealth and empire.
Actions that will tempt the heavens
with sparks that ricochet off the anvil of God.
So even the lost alien observer
will feel this pain of mankind.
These seedlings cropped by lawnmowers damned
Scything through the spirit of man.
And perhaps the crying mother will find comfort
that the greed that underpins all wars,
will see this Judas priest .
This paper with devils desire
that feeds a global asylum,
in cubicles of generic concrete
waiting for the illusive pension from life.
Will find the ark that prophets seek.
A truth that transcends all religion.
Heaven declines your currency
wealth is a mortal thing
your fee is to the earth
and that is the remembrance of you.
The cry of the swift
gives Gods speed to assassins flight.
A mirage of summer
that avoids the artists brush.
Natures fly has devoured this sin of man
and sacrifice is given,
to the voyagers of the sky
converting the souls of men to flight.
And perhaps in this act ,
humanity will find redemption.
And the boys that died unseen
will finally see the beauty of creation,
high above the pain below.
Screaming on the wings of freedom
A truth reserved for God
and a dead boy’s dream.
steven cooke, 21 may 2012
Yellow
Fumbling through a sheen of yellow
the land and sky merge as one.
and earthly song goes silent.
The stage is set for death to breed,
tendered by phantoms, catching the unwary
these purveyors of men’s souls
The rats were the first warning,
blind panic the second.
The sting on the eye brought the fear,
the search for the mask the doubt.
was it by my side or did it fall,
Into the mud or by my gun.
Focus, Focus.
Shaking hands, remember the clip,
the burn in the eyes is it too late.
The feel of rubber sticking to my face,
breathe slowly searching for the cough
heart ready to explode, relief the smell of air.
Then silence replaced by the gurgle.
The gurgle of dying men walking blindly
grasping for air, but the air has gone.
Replaced by the yellow that kills
that yellow which delights in a slow kill,
that torments the sanity
of the view behind the mask.
To watch a man die in corrupted lungs,
to see his sweet words of life,
replaced by a froth that no man should see
The mercy of god is elsewhere this day,
as the eyes blister, his body writhes
and the light is dowsed from his existence.
Yet still the burning pain remains gathering its strength,
rushing through the brain.
No lasting thoughts of home,
only pain, manufactured by Adam
the gurgle, the last words of a dying man
And I who have survived will witness this,
every day of my life,
and people will say “there goes a hero”
a soldier of the Great War.
And I will accept their drinks and cigarettes,
and for a moment I will forget
The yellow that killed my friends,
but the yellow will return
The yellow that will always follows me,
hoping for a helping hand,
a rope, a pill, or a shot,
the choice is yours.
As long as you make the roll call right
But the yellow can never take
the memories,
that my comrades gave to me.
For they are immortal
and my comrades will always watch over me,
As I will of them.
And now the yellow fades from memory.
The ghosts will walk no more
for the ranks are full
the last Tommy has passed away.
The trenches a depression in a field,
and the poppies are histories reminder,
Of what has passed this way.
steven cooke, 3 august 2016
The boy of silence
The face behind the harlequins gaze
hides the scars of yesterdays man.
Born in an Attercliffe slum
in the rags of fathers graft,
with a pencil for a voice
stolen from milk mans note.
A boy in possession of an imagination
and no future
Who can still see a glimmer in the rust
buried in the abandoned steel works,
lost in council’s regeneration
of a green field sites that now offers
the quest for a four leaf clover.
This gift can be a lonely thing
in a world of regimented minds.
Inspiration needs a partner
for every word is a journey.
Writing belongs to my addiction
and my love
for the glorious water of Scotland.
For a single malt can make a man hear
the ghosts from the past.
The fear of being the scruffiest lad at school
leaves a generals memory of war
bullies and a pregnant girls shame.
A school is a flag that I shall not pass
for its contents means nothing to me.
The wood that that lost its view
to the Stalag of tomorrow’s drones
Can only cry in silence.
But I who was born in its shadow
found solitude and my fortress
Inside a tent of twigs
in a cold uncaring world.
My soul could never connect with
the wage packet teachers
who are as forgetful as me.
The boy who found his dreams
In the cover of the oak.
Whose presence still remembers
the torn book of Sassoon
thrown into the brambles discarded,
as the generation within it was.
I am the voice whose audience was the wood
and applause came from imagination,
though the spirits of the past looked on.
The immortality of silence
is only a pretender.
For it shouts within my soul of past memories,
Of a ghost I do not know
existing in the denial of god.
A being that time cannot touch.
And long after I am dead ,
the wind will carry this immortal feather
and in its dance a ghost will be seen.
Looking for a stolen pencil
and a torn book that nobody reads.
steven cooke, 6 august 2016
Assassination of love
A fertile wind lures a petting call
from the bull who will swim the Lough.
Immortality lurks within its perfume
of dynasty and a future king.
The scent of tomorrow makes love extinct
for our genes are perfumed with success.
Prada and Versace can make the lemon sweet
but the offspring will question this statue,
we call David.
Poets will bleed a loves embrace
this beauty of presence a royal write.
While nature spins the spiders web
of a lover who creates life with death.
These tears will soon be forgotten,
in the rose that greets the winter.
For love grows cold in the markets of man.
But love should not be abandoned
for creation is a spiritual thing.
As the warrior holds his head against the tree,
unspoken words transcend this earth
that only his isolation can see.
And in its meaning
love can find a nobility,
that prostitution will never be.
Love was a word that once made empires fall,
now reduced in the confetti of modernisation.
A face book soul caught in the pouting lips
of adolescence,
staring into the depths of an old man unseen.
And the obese teenager that parents adore
go blind to this locked door .
While mirrors delight in snow white dreams
and a wardrobe that secretly desires perversion.
For the window of porn gags for that.
Sex is the ticket to the premiere
that eventually all her friends will see
and the weak will be the spillage
Of a corn sack filled
by a man that only a rapist will see.
Walk into this gas chamber
And succumb to a kiss,
prostituted by a River Island fee
and a Rimmel greasy lipstick.
That makes the suitor hard
inflamed by the chemical caress of perfume
which will procreate another lost child
Into oblivion.
And love will show its face once more
In the bottle of regret
and a being too fat to work.
Spilling the grease from his chips
while watching the latest premiere
Of another adolescent dream
steven cooke, 14 december 2012
Mercy
Cut the trees
and cut your veins
for your extinction is entwined
These creatures that have been robbed of home
are on this conscience of mine.
Can my existence
be above their creation,
is extinction my legacy?
Will god forgive my sins?
or am I the parasite from above.
Death and destruction are part of me,
can heaven really want the likes of me?
My number will pillage the earth
and only god can stop me.
But in this testimony
the shadows of past will condemn
and the time draws near,
when I too will become a memory.
This life that shared the will of man
will thank god for my demise
for I will repent,
though the universe is blind.
I am insignificant
a temporary molecule in time.
I humbly accept this judgement
of a higher being, for we cannot trust ourselves.
My nature is to destroy the things of life,
this is the sum of mankind
for greed is programmed into me.
Will the dodo forgive from above?
was its flesh worth the feast?
Every day the beauty of creation disappears,
will these creatures that are now silent
ever forgive.
Can arrogance belong to the dawn of man?
Does this final supper belong to me?
The earth devoid of life,
my power is that of progress
and reward is a desert without life, my kingdom.
Can this universe stop the devil in Man?
For I am mankind, heaven is my arrogance
and I am the king of life
Ruler of all this silence
And now it is too late
for silence has found me.
steven cooke, 2 december 2012
The Rose
This immortal rose that lovers seek
will be glimpsed by all in youthful peak
for her presence will be on every corner.
And those who confuse that heady perfume
with a lust for love,
will only find winter in an unknown heart
for beauty was always a fragile thing.
We who have seen this gift from above
will always get burned by its light.
The poet and the painter
have perfumed our existence
with loves testimony to this.
The pain and tears fall on empty shield
for love will break your heart
but when we reach out to hold the rose
picked from these fields of hope,
a moment in life unfurls,
love will kiss your soul
and the world belongs to you.
Fleeting are the petals of time
the rose is a symbol to love.
For others it is the pain of life,
to find and lose this immortal gift
leaves a desert where life cannot breathe.
The laughter replaced by silence
the smile that is kept in darkness,
the kiss exiled to the memory.
Love is lost in the deepest pit
of your despair,
the thorns will bleed your soul red
but she can never die.
Love will always leave a spark
that will lead you to redemption
and only death can take this from you.
The rose was never yours to pick
but its creation yours to admire
for your being was made for this.
And as our mortal bodies die
the spirit will seek the rose once more
for in death its petals fall too
blessing the ground of your resting place.
The rose was always yours
and its beauty a source of life
the chains of doubt will always
break in its presence.
The rose is pure
as is your faith in mankind.
It can show you a deeper meaning
for you are the petals of life
she is the perfume of your existence
and it is you that made her life complete.
steven cooke, 7 july 2016
The Politics of War
To ask a flower to kill a bee
is to ask a man to become the beast.
That is the will of war
The skylark rages it’s voice above the battlefield
For destiny lies below.
No argument with this world ,
but a foreign invader has entered his field.
The song of life is threatened.
The immigrant guns have freedom of movement,
they scream a betrayal of life.
The seeds of the poppy are in turmoil,
the sound of the shells
replaces the tractors of life.
And in this chaos the poppy symbol is born,
in a reluctant will of sacrifice.
Innocence of poppy will dull man’s pain,
but nothing is real.
War belongs to foreign shores
for English tea must not be disturbed.
And history will prostitute these red petals
in the hope that we will remember them.
Remember a moment in time,
a dream that flows in atoms unseen.
This speck of man within the cosmos.
A vote of no confidence in God,
for eternity is a lonely place.
Mortals and ghosts remember them.
Remember the soldier who sang down this road of despair,
who marched on a foreign soil.
Made proud under the willow by glorious woman
and prayed for by siblings to come.
Made ripe by a glorious English summer.
Victory is a tinsel thing.
War salivates for the fools and the brave.
The devil is on the move
groaning in his orgasm of pain,
that spills this cup to quench the end.
And the streets of home will be swept clean
By the invalid that saw them die
Yesterday’s confetti, this mush that blows in the wind
gathered by a broken man,
smoking his last park drive.
And when the misty morn greets the milkman.
Fear of nations will give a copper pension,
a loaf of bread for a young man’s life
and a bugle to let the devil know,
“these souls are out of bounds“.
steven cooke, 30 march 2015
Field Of Dreams
(World War One Poem)
Field OfDreams
The World has stated our freedom,
the worms shall share a soldier's fear.
To look above my trench
is to be a thief in the night.
Life shall lurk, afraid of what is above.
.
My brothers wait for their moment
the maverick shell will deal the deck.
The queen of spades shall flirt with all,
hoping to sear our blood against this iron of hate.
War treats victims with the vindictive pain of foe
for non are welcome to this battlefield.
.
The steam from burning bodies is wine to the party,
this thrill of reality a true Russian roulette.
A link between man and beast,
for we all take part in this unifying glory of slaughter.
.
Refugees are we
the artists and the poets,
fraudsters and scam artists
We manipulate waist paper and propaganda,
for the legacy of death is ours.
.
Bully beef is king for contentment is rare,
we give thanks to cattle sacrifice.
I share existence with comrades temporary,
my ghosts exist In Gods lungs.
Their memories haunt my sanity
the last sinner's refuge to comrades condemned,
for we shall never tell the truth.
.
We are and were common men,
obedience is what we do.
Threatened by a lieutenant boy,
but all will cry this night.
.
No home shall know this fear,
for we are the blood of England.
Our betters will try and sanitise our demise
in poppies and salutes,
which will heal in public memory,
but poppies are meant to bloom
not to fall from cathedral skies.
.
Pour our blood on sacred earth,
drink, disciples of this last supper
for our humanity resides in you.
Paint your galleries in gallant charge
and hold the hand of fallen stars.
Unknown corpse shall not linger in
the spirit must moves on.
.
Life is fleeting, the logistics of killing a fact.
Blood will dry before a baking sun
or hide in in monsoons quagmire
and somewhere in the lost,
lies a forgotten smile
a lover's heart and a dream
of a generation gone.
.
Dreams belong to our time,
and forever is a deity dream.
Do what you will with this gold.
Fill your coffers with tomorrows hunger
for harvests will come again.
.
Our final moment has arrived,
a cold micro second within a distant universe.
We are ready to leave this trench,
talk is quenched by silence.
.
The voice of shell will play the stage.
Maim and confirm the kill,
in the light of demons
and give your applause to God.
.
Blood will sign the death certificate
and the reaper will overplay his hand.
An easy day for him, for this is the tsunami of man.
The reaper wil dance on the corpses surrendered,
though he still has to tango with flies,
for they have no respect for him.
.
The lead will rant a blazing tune
like lovers ill matched,
arguing who shall live or die.
.
Daffodils felled for market,
a mothers day greeting in the morning post.
And the milkman will deliver the milk
to doorsteps old and new.
.
The tears will be washed in corporation water
for the lead pipes have not yet been stolen,
and the trams pass by oblivious.
For grey faces dead read the law of man,
humanity need another day.
Another hero insanity dictates,
for tomorrow promises to be
another glorious day.
Latest comments:
18 may 2024
kb
jakoś kojarzy mi się z "siostrami wielkiej
18 may 2024
no chyba że pomieszkuje
18 may 2024
zdaje się że nikt tu już nie mieszka
18 may 2024
bardzo
18 may 2024
orzeźwieni... prawie jak otrzeźwieni... i to
16 may 2024
violetta
Może w lipcu będę miała takie wakacje:)
16 may 2024
jeśli tylko
słońce w płynie..
15 may 2024
Weronika
Za jeszcze jeden rejs!
14 may 2024
Mam takie oko :)
14 may 2024
Jaga
Zwierzęta upodobniły się do koloru otoczenia
14 may 2024
To naturalny suchy i pustynny klimat. I tam są
14 may 2024
Klimat taki, że nie był i raczej nie będzie,
20 may 2024
Satish Verma
19 may 2024
wiesiek
19 may 2024
Satish Verma
18 may 2024
Satish Verma
17 may 2024
Satish Verma
16 may 2024
Satish Verma
15 may 2024
Jaga
15 may 2024
Satish Verma
14 may 2024
Satish Verma
13 may 2024
Satish Verma