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steven cooke, 4 may 2017
The Red Step and Thee
(The word thee is a Yorshire word still used today it means you)
(Spanish Winter refers to the Flu epidemic that killed 18 million in 1918)
.(the red step is what you see on old terraced houses which are always curved from generations of scrubbing. Sheffield in South Yorkshire still has many properties with this step.
The Red Step and Thee
.
Progress dissolves the paint of Lowry’s image
never to be seen again in children’s eyes.
Faceless individuals
blurred in match stick graves,
witnessed by strangers
from a forgotten window
In the clouds of the last steam train.
.
The homes of yesterdays hovel
covered in blackened walls of soot.
Leaves a legacy
that the faeces of wealth has moved on
and brown field is the apology
that council apostles give.
.
Still the echoes of humanity
gives way to a church
that only the old can see.
The last survivors of a planet
Where rescue has been abandoned by time.
.
Memories of Jericho greet
the historians camera,
as the dust removes the sun
from cataract eyes holding the past
.
The smash of the wrecking ball
mimic’s a galaxies demise.
The stars of yesterday
leave a trace of community
where the crucible of men,
were born in corrupted air that hides
the sacrifice of life.
.
An equation that is beyond this universe
for life is an illusion that only fading eyes can see.
Yet suffering and graft is survival,
the heat of furnace puts bread on the table
while the molten metal reflects
the souls of men to God.
.
A reflection that reminds the living,
of the aching poverty that haunts
a callused hand,
reaching for a drunken solace that gives
existence to a temporary peace.
.
While a palace called the workhouse
competes with mortality like a dying star.
Churning the names of nobody into oblivion.
.
Rest is for the fools on the hill
while sleep harbours the devil.
Bread will burn only for 30 pieces of silver
and Sunday will always demand
a service to God.
.
Life bides its time in a failing body,
old age will fill this dark space.
Never to be spoken.
For youth is best savoured while it lasts.
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Redemption is found in a girl with rags for pigtails,
who sees the boy in taverns light.
Pock marked and spoken in a language
that only thee will understand
.
This girl is where creation takes back all that is lost
for her home is the only universe that matters.
A terraced house is a place of love
where the horrors of life cannot pass.
.
A sanctuary where the roots of creation
mirror the seedlings of a forest to come,
that is protected by an ancient cross
which no atheist can steal.
A humble red step,
curved like the cup of Christ
.
Here lies the history of forgotten souls.
A family known only to the ledgers quill.
Dirty feet, tiny and large,
anointed by a destiny that could not be avoided
Happiness is to savour and share
the bread and dripping
Scraped in obedience
of a penitent wage.
.
Welcome cannot afford a mat.
A greeting is met by a red step
that only a true King would understand.
Kept sacred in cleanliness
by scrubbing away the misfortunes of life.
This is the shield
of a proud woman who bled away her life
for family and husband
and children lost to disease and poverty.
.
Happiness and sorrow will always cross this step
but all will find absolution.
For woman is the priest and confessor
she is the oak that defies this darkness.
A girl apprentice turned master
in the keeping of the red step.
.
And though her flame blew out
in the wind of a Spanish winter
an ember of light still flickers in the sky.
.
Not sought by astronomers
nor wished on by lovers.
She is just there.
Watching over the forest
that her spirit created
Known only to God
and the children that love left behind..
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, 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, 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, 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, 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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
steven cooke, 30 september 2013
War Artist
I scrawl these visions
in the light of exploding shells
and the grey sleep of a million corpses,
making my pencil the last witness
to the moments between life and death.
Truth shall guide my trembling hand
across a blank canvass that will inherit
this day’s memory of pain.
A transformation in the dark colours of suffering
that echoes the sounds of war
to a respectable audience,
taking their morning tea in England.
The epitaph of a race captured in a wooden pencil
sharing the blood of mankind
in another holy grail.
Come drink this sweet wine of youth
for it will never empty.
My pencil denied by the colours of life
creates glory on a foreign field.
The sons of mothers pose
in deaths final picture,
frozen for winter to play.
Till the heat of summer takes them away
on blue bottle wings to heaven.
A rotten imprint to torment the living.
They were once human as I remember
who came with wit and clean socks
seeking the approval of father.
All were looking for a road to be a man
but the road was a trench,
whose veins pulsated with the blood of the dead
giving birth to the shadows of tomorrow.
Shadows, shadows all is shadows
the pencil can tell no lies.
Life turned into spectres and flies
haunting the conscience of mankind.
We are no longer human beings
war in the trenches dulls the meaning of life.
Death is but a serial number and a victory
for tomorrow’s paper.
Life wasted in Judas visions for all to see.
And I who live in fear
cannot see the lines of humanity anymore.
Only images seeded in a fractured brain
whose portfolio burns in the corpse
that was once my soul.
This pencil has done its duty
The reaper can take these eyes,
eyes that see the shadows
dancing in the flickering flames of war.
A light that bears witness to my last heart beat
in the scribbles of a dying man.
My destiny foretold in my work
to spend eternity in the darkness
that surrounds the stars,
with a pencil that can draw no light.
Pass gently dear comrades from this earth,
time is the watch which knows no end.
Only the blind and the dead will hear
the last tick of this illusion.
For silence is the secret of the earth
everything dies, everything dies.
steven cooke, 6 september 2013
The House Of Many Faces
I am the man that feeds the world
genetically engineered crops,
come take your fill.
I am the investor who gives you land,
your debt can wait,
for we know who you are.
Multiply and grow fat for I need an army
teach your children about us and them
and be grateful that you belong to us.
For we are civilised so pay the tax
that freedom brings you.
Tomorrow uncertainty waits
time is the rain that washes the future.
Famine will always be your brother
so hold my hand and walk with me.
Should the bee turn its back on you?
then nature will focus the brain.
To kill for survival is a gift from God,
to live is the right of every man.
Follow me and the acrid smell of new asphalt
shall delete the footsteps of your past.
I am you and you are me
science will cheat all that is written.
End of days will launch the virus
and Preachers will look through saintly windows
at the gathering headstones.
And a child of the world will see
fields full of white chairs
and wonder “where are the people”
The terrorist will kill the innocent
martyrdom their reward
and we will watch the TV in silence,
as our loved ones fall from the sky.
And somewhere in the world
the decision will be made.
A victim will be selected
and a drone will do its duty.
Their coffin will be draped
in right and wrong,
honour to the left
and traitor to the right.
A holy cross will divide this river
for all will cling to the illusion
of them and us.
God will control the believers
political solutions the rest.
No race or religion can alter the time
the sums will solve survival.
Some must die to let me live
and I have chosen you,
the holy grail of the west
to take supper with me.
For in all this destruction
In all the beauty that has been lost.
There stands a human being
the perfect spy from above.
For in human form the devil exists
It is only when we die
Can the angel be born?
And the writings of poets
will be heard no more,
the ink will only follow orders.
Blue and the green will fear the brown
and black will not trust the white.
The language of man will fuel the fire
and the grey of ash shall win.
But in truth who will miss this existence
for the angel is a brother of the devil
and God is the father of all.
Our epitaph will be found
painted on the cave walls of the frightened.
Dreamtime will come again
and the last child will draw the final image.
Of the white chairs waiting in a sea of green
and she will pick the last flower
that only she can see.
steven cooke, 6 september 2013
A Fairy Story According To Jeremy Kyle
Her Life defined by the size
of potatoes in a supermarket trolley.
She opens her battered purse
out of shape from the coppers of life,
viewed with despair from eyes
embedded in the bags of time.
Self-esteem abandoned in discoloured trainers.
Her contaminated cheap cider mind
still clings to the fog of that special day,
when she gave herself to him.
The doll that came to life
In dreams that found a prince.
Sweet anticipation was the nectar of being
and forever had found immortality
in the quest for life.
But this flower was envied by the weeds
jealousy was rife amongst the onlookers.
The detritus who once shared her life
now whisper their poison into her veins.
Jealousy is a lonely place for them
and hate cannot spell love.
For love is a need beyond the individual
and evil must walk alone.
She was s a bride of the damned
Immersed in a punk rock dream.
But dreams turned into nightmares
and she was spit on
by the culture which became her jail.
Anarchy came from the womb
obedience came from poverty
and know your place came from the hand she loved.
Silence was now her existence.
Daddy never told her
fairy tales have no god.
Her prince became a frog
a drone who hated is lot
and she became the witch that trapped him.
Made him the victim of Grimm's tales
Which cast him down the yellow brick road
of unbrushed teeth and brown.
Whose fists shattered the crystal ball
of happy ever after,
to be baptized in the liquid sea of Stella
and pools of emerald vomit.
To bite this apple needs no witches poison.
Addiction is anonymous as a wave on the ocean
knowing that death will come when it reaches land,
knowing that this is the fate of all refugees
who abandons their lifejacket to oblivion.
We are all jumpers cleaning the windows of tomorrow
hoping to avoid the ledge of life.
Though in our hearts there is a desire
to step off into uncertainty
for we all crave that moment ,
when we are truly free.
Some will leave this life in anger
others will give their life to peace,
these are the survivors.
But the victims
The Jeremy Kyle’s entourage
will strip their soul one petal at a time
In the act of do not remember me.
We are all born into fairy tales
the dice of chaos decides the memory.
And for those who take the time,
take the time to see the artist at work,
will recognise the beings that walks past us every day.
The stranger who buys the small potatoes
With a purse full of coppers.
Spending what is left of their existence
In the supermarket that we call life.
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, 6 june 2013
Soldiers Thoughts
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 april 2013
The Thatcher Years
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 march 2013
Epitaph of the Dragon
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 march 2013
What Dreams May come
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 march 2013
The Bible According To Netto
(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 february 2013
The Five Pillars of Poetry
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 february 2013
The Twelve Pillars of Poetry
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 february 2013
Kiss of Darkness
(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 february 2013
Not For Them
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.
steven cooke, 20 january 2013
The Murder of Civilisation
An Englishman lost in afternoon tea,
Memories of a lotus flower love
Rajas and elephants in Delhi
Livingstone the explorer
Religion to convert
Laurence of Arabia
A leader of men
The Boers and the Zulus
Gordon and Khartoum
These are the things that shook the world
Silk and Cotton,
The wealth of Empire
Earl Mountbatten our man in Burma
The cry of Bombay and Ceylon
Oblivious to a young man’s dream
England was the world
Her Empire was great
For the sun never did sett
On her wealth
The jewel in this noble crown
Yet History was not kind
Exploitation her crime
Though civilisation came hand in hand
For Freedom we planted
Democracy you chanted
The union jack you did burn
And what have you learned
Greed breeds poverty in silence
Sectarian dogma your anthem
Murder by the chosen few
How flourishes your tree
When your morals all flee
With bombs in the souk
And murder by troops
Education restricted
The poor evicted
To make way for corruption
And tyrants consumption
Look to the horizon
For there lies Britain
It's empire gone
But our pride lingers on
Can your freedom say the same?
Or is oil to blame?
Who shall we accuse?
For your freedoms abuse?
Not the British
Love us or hate us
England brought you civilisation
And civilisation lives on
In this green and pleasant land
steven cooke, 18 january 2013
After the Battle WW1
I felt his breath leave the battle field
as bayonet pierced his heart.
The surprise of death lay in his eyes
his blood poured warmth upon my hands,
anointing my soul with his.
His flow of life will find the earth
to merge with victims past
and another ghost will follow me,
shouting for my demise.
This lowly man who took the shilling
as Judas took his thirty,
now looks across this no man’s land
for this corruption belongs to me.
Beneath this mud
lies the dreams of men
the commandments of life,
now lost within these decaying bones
for this war has silenced them.
And up above heaven receives
the righteous who take their place,
but the blood of my victims
are now a moat
and I would surely drown.
The dreams I have taken
will guard the gates
while angels turn their back to me.
I am the soldier who orchestrates the kill
my sins can wait in heaven.
The Holy Ghost can watch his time
for I am Lord this day.
It takes a soldier to humble the gods
for their power lies with me
a solitary man who has done his duty.
So God, send your laurels to me.
I am one of millions
Destined to be forgotten
But men were born with tears
our tears will match
any storm that you can send
For we are the battle
and death is our destiny
We who feed this barrage of blood
now fear the morning mist rise?
For this grey belongs to dead men’s dreams,
their sweet stench a reminder
of what’s to come.
For tomorrow, I will be one of them.
Bury me deep
God must not find me
Anonymity will be my peace
Only Mother,
will remember me.
steven cooke, 14 january 2013
The Window of 2012
The rose has framed the summer
the leaves have done their duty.
The flowers have shed their seeds
and the hedge rows offer their final feast.
This community of life will forget the rain
that killed their babes.
Nature’s rage is done
the darkness of winter approaches
and sleep is what some will fear.
The bee has done his work
and death will come tonight.
Though his legacy will protect the queen.
The swallows are over the ocean
destined to follow the sun,
they are a year older
and the wet summer has taken its toll
the ocean will be grave to some.
The old man who now wears his scarf
reflects on another summer gone,
memories of youth grow distant
and his love for her lingers on.
In the city the face of humanity is blind
for they have forgotten natures laws.
Their life of work and mortgage pressure
will bleed the soul on corporate mill.
The mandatory tie is a noose
the alarm clock the wake of despair
and the rain will greet the morning rush,
dripping its sorrow on bowler hats
that feed on the drones they cover.
The autumn years will find them mute
for release from work will kill.
Life outside will be a stranger
the ant has lost his way
and up above the clock ticks on
into uncertainty and fear.
The blanket of winter has come for payment
the cold will take the weak,
But nature will hide her treasure
for hope is buried from icy grasp
The spring will heal the losses
and the rose will rise again,
her beauty will frame tomorrow.
And those who wish to look
those who admire her beauty
will flourish in her fragrance.
Their essence will join this chorus of life
the cries of the new born will fill the earth
for the circle of life is complete.
And these corrupted cities
will look away for the markets are open
feeding a mirage of wealth.
Like the magpie for shiny things
always wanting more.
Death will come in comfort things
like cigarettes and alcohol.
though pockets of gold will not follow
for heaven was lost in yesterdays gamble.
And the ants will rush for one more day
for all will be forgotten in time.
Except for the Rose
her nature cannot be bought
and she will be with us
To the end of time.
steven cooke, 10 january 2013
Footsteps of the Tiger
The tears of the tiger
Trapped in this snare of man
Fades into an ancient kingdom
Where silent footsteps once reigned
To feel his breath upon your neck
Is to know that death has come
His lick will taste your soul
And jaws will steal your flesh
His honour will take your sacrifice
And your fears will die with you.
But should his wits fail
To my ambitions,
Then he will know
That I am top predator
Oh beautiful creature
Whose grace was born to kill?
Your Hyde is but a bauble to me
When I have forgotten this day
Moths will feast on your memory
These glass eyes that I give to you
Will see this mausoleum
That I have created
For death has always been my work
Yet when I see the tears of noble beast
Defeated by a cruel world
One feels his tears run down my soul
And something is lost to me
Your eyes that once stalked this life
Celebrating discovery of prey
Hide tears of a changing world
Your destiny is to talk in silence
Though your roar now falls silent
You were always heard in my heart
The message consumes this hunter with guilt
But no one will hear,
Except the tiger and me
Being human I wish to be a tiger
For in life he was a great king
And only time can make him a pauper
His magnificence is his downfall
But in death he was always
A noble being.
I was the darkness
That tried to touch his light
But I am not worthy
I am the pauper who destroyed a king
And now the future
Belongs to paupers
Who will never see
A World that was once filled
With such noble things
For all that remains
are the shadows of me.
steven cooke, 23 december 2012
The Prodigal Son
Let this day vanquish our differences
for father is still the head.
Put by our petty grievance,
let family rule the day.
Come brother let us be at peace
your heart can melt this snow.
The voice of child was always you
and the tears of ancestors
now watch with pride
of the man you have become.
Your place in life
is to be at this feast,
the family is united.
This legacy of Christmas joy
has written your story.
The manger has carried your children
and a star shines upon this house
because of you.
So remember this day
family is precious
the joys of the world belong to you
Happiness has smiled
health is in celebration.
So Grandmother be proud
for this is the legacy of you.
Joy permeates this house
The eyes of the child
look up to the family.
So drink to mother and father
for they gave roots to this tree.
Our family is the earth and the earth is you,
On this day we can all believe.
The hurt of the world be gone
It is a day of forgiveness
and that is enough.
Rejoice on this special day
Christmas was born for you.
The pages of time are yours to write
and your story will go on and on.
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, 11 november 2012
Reflections of a Mortal Light
Peaceful are the water lilies in flower
The ripples of contentment belong to the fish
and quiet is the grass that has healed this scene.
Lone tree crater is a ghost from the past
and it is here where God and Devil,
did put their differences aside.
To shed tears for man’s insanity.
The year is 1917
and life and death is measured
in corpses left behind on land now forgotten.
This crater born one of 19,
its first cry ordained in 445 tons of explosives.
A mythical being stamping each footstep
across the Messines Ridge,
silencing life in its wake.
A roar of death that can be seen by all,
troops are but wild animals caught in the headlight of its gaze,
helpless and forsaken with nowhere to run.
10,000 Germans with no grave,
their bodies vaporised.
Delivered by blue clay tunnel
Under the lines by British miners brave.
Though German pride would disagree.
Up above the mortars creep a relentless path
and down the ridge the British are advancing.
But they are mortal men
and their bodies are but eggs thrown against steel.
Death is all around this day.
But in this war death is every day,
survival feeds on primal being.
Kill and kill again, he who falls short will die.
Reward lies in darkened sky under the stars
and a billet lined with mud
But death will not let the soldiers rest
and medals of tin will not protect.
Be glad of cigarette to calm the nerves,
be glad of letters from home,
for these are the memories of life.
And sanity dictates that all men are born to die,
this death that is inevitable,
allows these soldiers a few precious seconds
to realise a truth.
It is the Earth that owns the man.
The will of man cannot steal this.
And as the soldier falls their allegiance grows dark
another lover’s heart is broke
Mother’s womb will cry alone
while children’s hands hold on to father’s gift
for he cannot hug them anymore.
Choice was never theirs.
For choice is what masters give
and freedom has evaporated from soldiers mind,
While the lies of democracy fuels these bourgeoisie plans,
for power is everything.
Wars are made by so few a number.
Fear the man, who can inspire a country to kill millions,
and fear the man, who has found religion,
for your bullets can only add to his glory.
Messines Ridge twelve hours of bloody Glory and 50,000 dead
This smell of decay is a reminder to the living
Less they forget their duty to life.
And what of the 10,000
Who left their bones on their last step of mortality?
To wander this earth without a grave.
The bones of the elephant will always be loved
Can we say the same by them?
History has left us these waves of white marble,
proudly keeping the ranks of the dead in line.
Their ghosts are ready to march again
and in the rear the new recruits volunteer,
for war will always be with us.
Underneath every headstone there is a story.
Their colour and culture has melted away.
In death we reconcile our sins with mother earth,
war becomes irrelevant
and perhaps we are too.
But for those who believe
a life without memories has only just begun,
their pain has floated away.
The tears of the families will flow out to sea
and the rain will wash these stones
for the light will always win.
The youth of 1914 braved the dark,
obeyed the voice of country.
Brief was their time on earth
and silence was a glory that these men did not hear.
In death calm now descends upon their memories.
and we who tender their graves,
shall keep their story alive.
For we will remember them.
Wir warden uns an sie erinnern.
steven cooke, 11 november 2012
Oh what A Lovely War
The sins of granddad brought me to war
for England has dined on this before.
The arrogance of dad who brags my shoes
for in his eyes I am England blue
The teacher who bellows you do us proud
a vindictive sod who ruled my class
The preacher who seeks my confession
who drinks the blood of Christ in whiskey heaven?
But never mind for god is always right
The trough of greed will grunt with pride
the bombs will fall killing the dreams below.
These fat cats of war all feasting on me
Oh what a lovely war, everybody in work
More champagne for them
and the grapes of wrath for me?
The rain of mother’s tears
will wash my soul
The marbles of play are gone,
No chance for love to warm my nights.
Only frost and the company of rats
gnawing on the bed of my insanity
No youth will smile with me tonight,
no innocence can protect me here.
The voice of death whispers my darkest hour
for this heart will soon be cold
and you who sleep in beds tonight
will never know the truth
The forces of ambition have gathered to see,
this place where youth will die.
Charlie Chaplin give us one last laugh
for the guns are straining on their leashes.
The generals have given their salute
and murder is about to bleed on countries lips
for this is a glorious war.
And in motherland they shall sing my praise,
hero is what I am,
But I still have a voice for one more night
though your ears will be deaf to me
Liars you are to the last,
So dam the lot of you.
For pain and fear is all I know,
the bragging rights will spill your beer
for Life was never mine to enjoy.
The lamb and beast all share my fate
though they will die in peace.
For their bodies serve a natures law
While my carcass will rot in Flanders land
Out of sight of country
for another will take my place.
I am an inmate of war
my letters the only sign of freedom
and my photograph a reminder to those,
who should have protected me?
A youth of another’s man war.
Me who gave the invisible a lucrative life?
Who served an empty command
watched over by mother’s tears.
My absolution will forgive their sins.
You see I am a peaceful lad
all I possess are the marbles of childhood
and the mercy that god gave me.
I am every mother’s boy
And every mother is proud of me.
But in death I will not enter Heaven’s gate
For I will wait for them.
Wait for the hand that brought me here
for I need to know the reason why?
Was this Flanders field worth the sacrifice of me?
And as this multitude of youth
marches into the arms of angels pity,
will god be blind to their confession?
For we remember that Charlie Chaplin made us laugh
We remember our mother’s tears
But most of all we will remember the buggers
Who brought us here, to die in Flanders land?
steven cooke, 11 november 2012
Apocalypse For Sale
A Golden Dawn is rising
the camera’s click the few,
the Greeks are out of options.
Immigration a convenient excuse.
Check your neighbour’s papers?
Jews have seen this before,
African skin is burning
and kristallnacht knocks
at victim’s door
Iran now plays with powerful dreams,
the prayers of ayatollah has a nuclear regime.
Syria drinks from wells of blood
As gunships harvest on freedom’s scream.
Israel is in therapy,
the Wailing Wall whispers
“Cut off the head of the vipers”
before your paradise is lost.
And all the while the Gaza strip burns,
for a Palestinian memory,
of Arabs who loved this land.
And far away the world rages on
New York is battered.
Nature is sending her message,
the dollar is not mightier than her
though the rich would disagree
and the poor of New Orleans cry
remember me?
The flight of destiny turns on China shore
pouring progress over peasant’s land.
The poison that kills her rivers of life
will return in prophecy of ying and yang.
Smog and contamination rolls in with profit
and a billion mouths will ask for more.
Over the border the mafia rule
a Russia of convenient communism
though everything is for sale
Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy
or perhaps a steel works or two.
And what of mighty England
The nation grows old
Banking magicians have finished her off
Now you see the cash and now you don’t
So there’s nothing for you and a bonus for me.
The invisible hand will save this world
Pyramid selling of capitalism the plan.
Sell more tickets to tomorrow’s Armageddon,
more customers mean more wealth,
keep us breeding and the markets are up.
And should their scheme collapse,
there is always another war.
Idle hands can carry guns,
the dead will nourish these fields
and a computer will speculate the price of life
for life is a commodity,
which they have planned.
Foolish words of a dying race.
Easter Island the message
now planted in this western greed.
Our churches empty for aliens to ponder
Our bones to look over empty seas.
While the remnants of our gods look down
at the shadows of the dead
Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and world War 3
Can you guess what comes next?
Let’s roll the dice once more,
A double six and the other six is you.
Latest comments:
7 may 2024
Weronika
Zapomnieć żeby było co sobie przypominać.
7 may 2024
Adam Pietras (Barry Kant)
Em, nie do końca, może wrzucę jakieś rozwinięcie,
7 may 2024
Myśli się zawsze więcej, niż pisze, tak sądzę.
7 may 2024
Eva T.
Pieknie w tej zieleni. Pozdrawiam :)
7 may 2024
Pomyslalam o wiezowcu, ale jesli o nic nie chodzi...
7 may 2024
Piekny :)
7 may 2024
jeśli tylko
spisanie to ujawnienie..
6 may 2024
Wiara w zimny poranek, to sprzeniewierzenie się
4 may 2024
Boli bo rektoskop to nie gadżet analny, więc
4 may 2024
Jutro jest niewyrażalne i nie do odgadnięcia.
3 may 2024
violetta
Drzewka do jedzenia:)
1 may 2024
Tak;)
8 may 2024
Satish Verma
7 may 2024
wiesiek
6 may 2024
Satish Verma
5 may 2024
Satish Verma
4 may 2024
kalik
4 may 2024
Satish Verma
3 may 2024
wiesiek
3 may 2024
Satish Verma
1 may 2024
Satish Verma
30 april 2024
Satish Verma