Archive for the work in progress Category

Why You Sing The Blues

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, music, philosophy, Poetry, therapy, War, work in progress, writing with tags on March 14, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Conscious of too much,

You are not primitive enough;

Sufficiently enlightened to see your folly,

Though unable to escape it.

As ego drowns instinctive sense

Of scale and wonder,

You cannot comprehend life

Except through the death you pursue wildly.

Whilst trying to deny self-destruction,

The only path which makes any sense,

You gorge your maniac lust on annihilation,

Invoking broken-mirror deities to justify

Chemical, consumerist mass-destruction insanity.

Why do you live if death

Is the only great adventure left?

Because somewhere behind this twisted madness,

Lies the irrational hope of love.


Rolande Barthes Proved Right by Text Message

Posted in christmas, love, Poetry, Uncategorized, work in progress, writing with tags , , , on December 3, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

What a lovely text to cheer

Me up when I’m working


“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

That’s nice. I’m glad

You’re thinking of me when

The week must have been hectic

For you.  I’m glad

You don’t resent my being

Away.  I’m glad

I have you to come home to.

“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

Do you? Am I being naïve?

Do I need an irony app?

Is this the face of festering


“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

The missing vowels denote

Lack of warmth.  Is this

A throwback to that disastrous

Date just after we met?

When you said,

“At least one of us had a good time”

Maybe you think I’m having

Too much of a good time.

Should I feel guilty?


“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

What awaits me,

When I get home?

Cold shoulder? My things

In a bin bag on the pavement?


“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

Well, you know what?

Screw you! I’ve been working, trying

To make a little extra for Christmas.

If you didn’t want me to go

You could have said.

I wouldn’t have gone.


“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

Yes I know, you

Had the kids all week but I’ve not

Been living the high life you know.

It was one drink,

An old friend from school I

Hadn’t seen in years.

I missed you, you know,

You obviously didn’t miss me.

“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

No need!



“Did you have a good time, love?”

“Get stuffed. I’m going to the pub.”

And so a perplexed, tearful, wife,

Wonders what she did

To be so harshly treated

After missing him like crazy all week.


Posted in Art, health, Mental Health, Poetry, work in progress with tags , on November 19, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

As the disembodied words

Of long-dead poets hang in the air

Like the memory of my Grandad’s Christmas cigar,

Febrile imaginings’ shadows are forced

Into twisted dance as unseen draught mangles

The flames of thought’s candles,

Wringing grotesque, demonic caricatures

From the sometime holy light.


Tangential echoes converge like ripples

From acidic raindrops

Distorting the reflection of heaven

To a Picassoesque parody  of

An unspeakable scream stuck in the throat

Of murdered innocence like a sixpence

Until only moths emaerge

Confused by too many moons

Consumed in a single moment, rendered unreal.

Scribbled in a Thunder Storm

Posted in Poetry, revolution, War, work in progress with tags , , , , , on July 23, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

The violence of lightning,

Smashes the stranglehold,

Of oppressive air,

Returning water, exiled

As vapour from excessive Sun,

To turn grateful earth green.


Now nurtured by more,

Democratic Helios, his

Power tempered by mighty Thor,

Fields flourish and the revolution brings,

Prosperity from violence,

Tranquillity from war in the sky.

Death on a Summer Evening

Posted in death, Poetry, work in progress with tags , , , on July 2, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

The evening breeze carries Autumn’s shadow,

Her substantial form, I shall never breath,

For a darker night, for me, must follow,

Than this which Summer’s last mist enwreaths.



Wriot – or Getting Ready to Write

Posted in Poetry, work in progress, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on February 11, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Ariel up and ready to receive,

Ladies and gentlemen,

Take your seats please.

For the Madness is upon him again,

Semantic acrobatics performed with paper and pen,

Frantic words tumlble and spin,

Spitting raging pain on the page and then,

They cascade like molten theremite behind his eyes,

His brain flails blind arms and vainly tries,

To catch the white hot syllables,

To make sense of the cinders,

Which burn as they turn to ash in its fingers.


Meaning may come later,

Not from the cooling heap in his mind,

But from still-bleeding scars on clutching hands,

Sifting through embers to find,

The source of the ignition,

Melted beyond rcognition,

To seperate the relevant,

From the fumes of the accelerant,

The overpowering stench of sentiment,

Which forms sludgy sediment,

And dulls the spurs of his intent,

Leaving nothing to come to fruition.



Posted in Poetry, work in progress on November 10, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

After Elliot,

Developers bought up the Wasteland,

And drew up futuristic plans,

For luxury homes for the rich ones,

Now long since rotted into slums,

Worse than before,

And 1984,

Seems a pleasuredome to rival Kubla Khan,

The much vaunted brotherhood of man,

Is fallen into fratricide, bitterness and division.

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