William Cook

Hi I realise that 'Blogging' is as much self-serving as it is for public entertainment. In light of this truth I have to ask the question: "Is anybody reading this blog?" So that is my question, is there anyone reading this blog and if so would you like me to continue posting items of interest? Obviously, this stuff takes time to produce, edit, post etc. The growing realisation that blogging (in my own opinion) is a probable waste of time has led me to ask this question to find out if it's worth carrying on. Anyway, there you have it - should I stay or should I go? Also, feedback on the blog etc would be appreciated. Best wishes Will

david bowie said:       “god is an american” nietzsche said       “god is dead” madame blavatsky said       “there is no religion,         higher than truth” i say:       “truth & religion         are non-compatible” by the way, this is not a political poem or a religious poem my views (contd.):         a poem is an expression of interest       potentially, entertaining       possibly, thought provoking       usually, annoying       seldom enjoyable       always didactic       drivel – essentially but this poem is not meant to tell you what a poem is or isn’t or what you should think   this is just  some words on a page po...

i love the smell of the city the hustle-bustle brilliance of life effective in every moment sweet ambrosia of death sits lurking in the shadows of rancid alleyways signposted with ciphers symbols of strange forests hieroglyphics of night’s construction breathe in the humanity breathe out the horror the horror of concrete & steel a flailing colossus the smell of victory over death not too unlike “the smell of napalm in the morning” lingering like perfume in the back of your throat

Her face, like a flower In a closed fist Wrinkled against time, adversity A patronising counterpart Settled in for a long lag & the drugs don’t work, all the time cigarettes, booze, pills, smoke . . . you name it, it’s viable as long as it’s a substitute for reality, three dimensions a quiet cup of tea & dogs are barking cars growling down the thin streets sirens screaming, intermittently a broken tap drips drips drips across the room, nestled amongst dirty plates piled high flies buzzing amongst the scraps on the kitchen bench a few ragged photos litter the walls & the money’s all gone two cigarettes ‘til hell no substitutes immediately avail themselves as each thing becomes a part of her like broken crockery strewn across the floor