TOM COOK Poems & Other Writings

We finish up and there’s, say, six of us

      In symphony, washing next to the sink.

We swipe our hands under the taps and - whoosh!

      Men don’t do such closeness; except to drink.

Then again, we find this part is much less fuss

      Than when guessing what the next guy would think

Were he to catch a glimpse of what we hide,

      With tilted shoulder and averted gaze,

As we straddle stinking porcelain, wide

      Eyed and focused on proving we’re not gays.

Up at the sinks, we’ve checked our hair and dried

      Our hands, and smiled through the mirror’s haze.

We have escaped this round, and we know it.

      Another few hours before the next

Embarrassing slog for each male Brit.

      For each one of us has to feel un-sexed

Thrice-daily - why do we do this bullshit?

      Here thrives the guilt from some religious text.

We gather round to hear the tale

Of Christopher the wise:

The voice who drank and smoked a life

That others never tried.

This tale, far from infallible,

Still stirs the hearts and minds

Of audiences young and old:

Thinkers of every kind.

A Balliol, Oxford Socialist

(His curse – ‘Hitch-22’)

Bohemian? Contrarian?

No clumsy noun would do.

Young ‘Chris’ incited liberty,

A lefty, soapbox king.

Whilst ‘Christopher’ was off elsewhere,

And whisky was the thing.

His turbulent and vivid youth

Forged loves that would endure

Into an adulthood that knew

The dangers of the sure.

Regimes and officers of God

Began to draw his eye

As targets for the fighter’s fight,

As madness yet to die.

Our Hitchens stood for no man’s lies

And fought the gospel crew!

Anti-totalitarian,

A stalwart through and through.

The circles of his confidence

Were loyal and steeled as chains:

McEwan, Amis, Fenton and

Rushdie all but shared veins.

Despite his look of arrogance,

The Hitch was warm and true.

Our one lament can only be

That this was known to few.

For at the age of sixty-one

Our man received the News,

And sooner than be taken down,

Hit back with witty views.

Unshaken by the stare of night,

His nature held its course.

Writing to write; speaking to speak;

Bravery in discourse.

His critics cried of Heaven’s wrath,

And said, “His fate’s his due…”

But Hitchens told them, “Save your prayers!”

And furthermore, “Fuck you!”

In friendship, truth and irony

Our Hitchens held his heart;

A champion of the polemic;

A comrade born of Art.

Facing his death until the end,

The Hitch remained on form:

Debate and love - in synthesis -

Refusing to conform.

By his deathbed, the pen in hand,

Hitch still could not falter.

Carving out prose on Chesterton?

This man, no dark could alter.

His arguments and counter-strikes,

Consistent in their theme,

Stay stony in their eloquence.

No years may those demean.

So though our Hitch may lie interred

On medics’ icy slabs,

This hero’s name shall ever sing

Of wit and booze and fags.

His grave supplied the silence warned.

He tore at life ‘til night.

He burned the candle at both ends.

It gave a lovely light.

Despite appearances, I do not do illegal drugs. However, I have a very good friend who, at any suitable opportunity, will vehemently defend cannabis, and exhume at length on its medical benefits and lack of risk as evidence in favour of its legalization. I love him dearly, but with all due respect - fuck that. The weight or otherwise of medical, philosophical or psychological evidence in favour of drug legalization is quite beside the point. 

I once heard Penn Jillette (the larger and louder half of the Penn & Teller magic duo) put the exact moral sentiment rather well. He proposed that a decent person in a position of authority should, before setting out to tackle any problem, ask themselves the following question - “can we solve this by giving people more freedom rather than less?” Bear that thought in mind.

Just across my desk from me, sits a jar of pickled onions. Suppose that, in the privacy of my own room, I gleefully enjoyed taking a single onion, peeling back my lower eyelid, pushing the onion as far under the skin as I could, and running around the room enjoying the burning effect that resulted. Suppose further that I was part of a large group of individuals who bought onions solely for this - albeit silly - purpose. Furthermore, think of the legal income onion farmers would receive from my vinegary madness.

Undoubtedly, this action is neither good for me as a person, nor medically or socially advisable. But crucially, how many people would condone putting a law in place that would demonize and remove my right to do that with said onions? This is transparent nonsense and wholly unfair, regardless of how much you may scorn the habits of the onion-abusers. This same principle applies to any single substance or action that takes place between an individual and their body.

To return to this most sincere issue, take the same sort of perspective on cannabis. This is a plant which people, of their own volition, choose to process and smoke for their own pleasure. It is every bit as organic as onions, every bit as safe when used correctly, and every bit as horrific if abused. However, the economic source of this plant is somewhat different. The only way that these people can acquire their preferred leaf is either to, somewhat bumblingly, attempt to grow it themselves (thus risking criminal charges and arrest, if not prison) or to purchase it, with a pervading air of danger and scummy menace, from a drug dealer (thus funding an underground and criminal mega-industry). Imagine either of these options in the context of my onions - every onion fetishist either desperately trying to nurture their own shallots, or else being approached by ludicrous and ugly individuals with jars of Bramwells concealed in their grubby pockets.

Already at this point, the voices of the dismayed parents are crying out that cannabis is not necessarily taken of their child’s own volition; they may be offered it by friends or older children, and somehow hoodwinked into insanity and addiction. If this, however, is what people think of their own children, then they have either raised them to be unquestionably weak and disgraceful individuals, or they have absolutely no respect for either their offspring’s intelligence or their independence as people. How many of these parents, or their friends, were part or product of the generation of pot-smoking, hemp-loving, Dylan-darling teenagers?

Every teenager at a party has either tried pot, or been offered it and politely declined. These adorably normal individuals have not gone on to become bog-eyed, unintelligible ganja-fiends, nor have they sunk so low as to campaign against any such adolescent parties and conventions in their horrified distaste.

Granted, there are individuals who become hopeless slaves to cannabis, unable to function without it and utterly vegetative or aggressive whilst on it. But these individuals find a way to become so irrespective of the legality and availability of cannabis, or of any other drug. If cannabis did not exist, these same people would be addicted to food, gambling, headache tablets, exercise, video games or the internet. Regardless of any laws or taboos, society will always be producing those who are unable to function, or who form an addictive personality which burdens them their entire lives - but these individuals are the laughing stock or simply the pitied. They are certainly not the norm.

A rebuttal of an already anticipated retort must here be made, for I can guarantee that the fist-clenching imbeciles who campaign against such propositions are already leaning forward, with this cunning proposition ready-formed on their lips. They will claim the high-ground on one merit: that my silly onion metaphor does not work, for onions would never turn people into aggressive parents, violent partners, deranged tramps and dangerous zombies! Nor have they caused deaths when abused! Currently illegal drugs, however, have been proven to do this.

Those things certainly have been witness to unspeakable human indecency; but so too have alcohol, prescription medication, obsessive compulsive tendencies, sex addictions and eating disorders both in the sense of the anorexic and of the morbidly obese. Each of these substance-based over-dependencies have too ruined families, damaged society, cost families or governments on their medical bills, and been handed on to the children of the enslaved. Once more - substances to damage and harm the body if abused are limitless, and there will always be those self-damaged enough to inflict it on themselves and others, regardless of the illegality or otherwise.

If any individual wishes to ingest, inject smoke, snort, inhale or devour any cocktail of cannabis, cocaine, heroin, ecstasy, LSD, plant fertilizer or unusual mushrooms, then they have every right to do that to their own body. If any person wished to make a law, having at least conceded this right, to prevent those individuals from afflicting their consumptions on others, then this law must too apply to anyone passing along their addictions to food, sex, exercise, cleaning, alcohol, cigarettes, etc. They have every right to ingest as many and as much of those things too, but the distinction is not for the law-maker to decide.

The inherent problem of prohibition falls with this governing power. To prohibit and defame one person’s set of consumer behaviours whilst perfectly legalizing another is to quietly yet forcefully deny their humanity. By no means am I suggesting that the currently illegal substances are harmless and care-free; to the contrary, they are ranged from mild and pleasant to addictive, toxic, and dangerous. However, the only responsibility of any organization, be it the government or a charity, is to inform the public: “cannabis can be addictive and prolonged use may fuel mental health issues - however, it has also been shown to be vastly effective in the support and treatment of cancer symptoms. You have the facts, now make your own decision.”

If the deluded and authoritarian laws that differentiate between addictive substances were removed, we would - overnight - win the self-inflicted ‘War on Drugs’. With no effort except to allow the public to do what they like and wish, such a government would pull the by-the-back-door funding that is taken by the dealers and the barons, simply by removing their market of illegality and perceived criminal power. This would, unequivocally, disenfranchise those who truly harm our children’s futures,and threaten our societal happiness.

With legalization in place, all substances would immediately become as equally viable as alcohol or tobacco to pay taxes, and contribute to the dwindling world economy. Jobs would be created as per demand in response to the gigantic market of public consumption produced. Better still, these new industries would be subject to the hygiene, product quality and distribution standards that already ensure excellency in so many corners of the established consumer market. We would do away with the risk of being - not mis-sold - but mis-dealt dangerous, fake or impure substances, and do away with the resulting deaths and illnesses that befall even the moderate and respectable users in nightclubs, parties and homes throughout the world. To not see the benefits of such a transformed world is ludicrous, and worst of all it is condescending to the public in the extreme.

The decision must not - and must never be - made for the individual, on their alleged behalf, by any other human being. This is an ugly yet petty problem, which can be solved with more freedom and not less. To do otherwise is to say that you don’t know your own mind, that you’re all too stupid to make an informed decision - so we’re going to make it a law that you can’t use or enjoy any of those things. In case you forgot (because all of you are at once addicted and morally inept) it is because you are far too stupid.

Leave us to our fucking onions.

© Tom Cook, 2012.

Purple and gold wall hangings;

Cigarettes, proffered, freely lit; 

Princely fur coats, shrugged at the door

And thus left, graceless, on the floor.

Resplendent bohemian Lord

Of Language strides the neat threshold.

Now (is he glad?) he’s talked about;

Birthday banner, melding “Oscar’s Out!”

One hundred and fifty seven!

His youth, as yearned, has held its course:

Immortal poster boy on walls,

And volumes in the library halls.

So though, in Reading Gaol, he fell

From art and grace, his face remains;

Doe-brown eyes, romantic flavour;

Our remembered second saviour.

© Tom Cook, 2011.

This officer is filled with glee as he

Snaps on my wrists the cuffs of custody.

I have explained, on my ‘arrest’ that I

Was not at all to blame, and told him why,

When found on the toilet with this man’s wife

I had picked up my clothes, and run for my life.

Dragging me back to him from the front door

I notice our lady’s underwear drawer:

Her closet’s resplendent with satin, tight;

I wonder why I deserved mum-pants tonight?

He seems pretty pissed as he jabs me upstairs

And we pass photos of their life without cares.

She’s back in the bathroom - thank Christ! I think,

As she splutters and blubbers in the new sink.

Forgive me, wash basin, as she says;

They’ve been such fun, our long, sexual days.

But anyway, the fat husband is back,

And copper’s decided that I’m for the rack.

I’m shown to the study and tied to a chair

(An alleged appeal for which I don’t care)

And all in all, it’s all going quite wrong,

As husband’s now screaming at me, in my thong.

The lamp’s in my eyes just like CSI;

I bet you’re enjoying this! I want to cry.

He starts with questions - I’d rather he punched,

As I’ve places to be, ladies to lunch.

When lines of enquiry get him nowhere

Instead of just hit me, he pulls his hair.

I’ve no time for his kind: men with feelings,

Just threaten to paste me over the ceiling,

Or leave me alone to do what I do.

Screwing your wife on your new bathroom loo.

© Tom Cook, 2011.

Patient. Fishes swish fast. Silver meals.

Legs made for this water. Orange shields.

Stand quiet, beak’s ever poised. Their flesh peels

Thin, into strips. Eat what still pond yields.

Nothing comes here, go further. Make fresh steals.

Clever boy, more places. Over fields-

Lift high, slow, spread wide. Up in sky, wind feels

Light and fresh. Grand, tumbling upwards, wields

Glinting beak. Still ready, still fast. Still sharp.

Tiptoe down, and stand sentinel in stream.

Wait to administer a kiss. Stab carp,

Slice trout, gouge minnow. Repeat the cold meme.

Soldier on, soldier. Little fishbone harp

Twangs on talons. Lift off, slowly. Flee the scene.

© Tom Cook, 2011.

Municipal grave. Writer. He stirs.

This town should be familiar to him.

Yes, he is the fitting guide, no doubt,

For he knew the manner of its sin.

Through the gravel he comes, which is cold

And wet - to match his quiet miser’s voice.

His spectacles are cracked; he looks old.

Yet he could have left, this was his choice.

“First is Limbo,” says the poet, wryly,

Dusting off his charcoal suit and hair.

Adjusting a hearing aid, dryly,

And sliding those glasses up that nose,

He points out his humble abode,

Mumbling to not mind the graffiti.

“It was just as shit before,” we’re told.

“Come. In days gone by I walked this road.”

Wrapping his scarf a little nearer,

The poet points out terraced housing.

“Here, things may get a little queerer.”

He finds the Northern Lust surprising:

Scattered to and fro, used condoms blow.

Blocking grids, caught in roadside hedges,

Silver skins are pecked at by a crow;

The librarian wrinkles his nose.

Not far further, a golden archway.

Great worms have come to fill their three mouths

At this Drive-Thru altar, day by day.

The poet has seen them not eating mud,

But pumping Gluttony with meal deals.

“There once were cafés; old fashioned tea

Is no longer the flavour, one feels.

Kick aside that ghastly coloured toad…”

Unconcerned, the writer leads us on

To a swollen, black gutter current.

A slim smartphone washes by, glinting.

Puzzlement comes to his eye, and bent

double, the old man lets out a sigh.

Drowning in this Greed, a sportswear suit

Begs our guide, in vain, to no reply.

“I’m repressed, and all I did was loot!”

The author crosses this urban Styx.

“It’s not your mum and dad, it’s this world

That fucks you up! I had it all wrong.”

As he sails across, a brick is hurled.

Violent, against the wind, it flies

And strikes in shards - some old dear drowns, curled

In the river, cowers from Anger.

Jobless civil servants cast the stone.

“This place is changed. Even here,” he wails.

The poet’s sheltered home is victim,

Just as maimed as any other town.

“The library! Redemption within!

University is surely pure!”

The roster tells him Heresy though.

Media and ICT appall

The poet; shock him, drag even him low.

Fleeing his old haunt, a pub TV

Gives license to his further grieving;

Afghan, Libyan, British boys lie dead.

A commentary on Violence sieving

The lives into palpable factoids.

“What is the Al Qaeda?” he croaks.

His stony eyes are roused, stirringly,

And the lack of answers means he chokes.

Composure gone, he tumbles, bat-like

Down the cliffs of flat Humberside streets.

A tabloid board warns him not to phone

For fear of Fraud - hacked phones, and tweets

That serve his heart for public feasting

In ways his poems never could do.

A raw, cold feast on morning broadsheets.

The small print warns: bankers scam you, too!

Municipal grave. Writer. He rests.

His town couldn’t be a home for him.

Now, he would be glad to die, no doubt,

If he knew the manner of its sin.

Through the gravel he sleeps, which is cold

And wet - to match his discontented voice.

His universe is cracked; it looks old.

He’d have it left: but had no choice.

© Tom Cook, 2011.