Images, Poems & Prose
Raymond Cooper


An Oligarchy of Billionaires

Feudalists were in reality a mass of gangsters
"Pay up or else"
Pomp and pageantry of monarchies
Feudal legacies
But, atleast they invoked a sense of romance
Their symbols and mannerisms became material for folk-lore
How much inspiration for romanticism are billionaires?
With a whisper in the ear of a primeminister
A billionaire can change governmental policy
Let us ask Alice Cooper
An expert on
"Billion dollar babies"


Every system has sucked
I was part of a dream
Musicians leading us with words and music
To Utopia
Father please don't scream
I wash my mane everyday
I keep it clean
Mother I'm awake
For heavens sake
I love school
Of course I'm going because of art class!
That was then, this is now
Mr. Morrison you are right
"True sailing is dead"

Let's go Sailing

No! I don't think so
City soldiers would
Make us disembark
Moreover, good men are not allowed
To make and sell ships
Killers run the ship industry
Let's not gamble with our lives
"The blue bus is calling us"
Sorry, James
Even in the Netherlands
Killers ultimately profit from the sale of blue buses

Pain Giver

Pain giver; Pain giver
Go away
And don't fucking return on another day!
And also stay away at night
Get the fuck out of my sight!
I know there's a large number of you on this earth
But you were not created from dust
You came from some source vile
Even your mother hates you
Take off that smile!


Love is the power
Love is energy
Love is you and I
Love is the source of life
Love is all
Love is sunshine love is rain
Love is sane
Love alleviates pain
Love is progression
Love is music
Love is a smile from a passerby
Love will last forever
In the twinkle of a baby's eye

Servile Parrots

Did you ever think?
Did you ever think?
Or are the creators of languages
Including languages of science
Incorporeal but
Did I ponder this or did they?
What a frightening


A piece of pie
Catches my eye
Almost everyday
A new Jeep for the winter
A new computer
Major cash in the bank
Suits to show high rank
Wealth is in my blood
I'm a chip of the old block
There's a Cooper road in Lahore, Pakistan
My home town
Named in respect for my great grandfather
So why no pie?
I've heard of artists alive
Selling a painting for twenty million
I've been painting since I was sixteen
M.F.A.s applaud my work
Stan Perrott critiqued my paintings
Stan; a major artist in Canada
A sage of artistry
Said. "Keep on painting". "You are a revolutionary"
Van Gogh, are you there. Would you answer a question?
Why the hell did you have to paint such beautiful, profoundness?
I think maybe to inspire me, amongst the ugliness of life in this dimension

A Dimension of Mind

We stepped out into a dimension of mind
And golden butterflies
Kissed our hands
We wondered if that's where we belonged
When we saw a door
Not an earthly bore
A fantastically beautiful door
But it would not open
We didn't have the right key
LSD was the wrong key
We became sore
We could not open the door
Reluctantly we returned to the physical
We gave each-other looks quizzical
We spoke of Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, and Allah
We heard an incorporeal sigh
And I am sure
It was not the fungus of rotten rye

Crazy Fisherman on the River Ravi

My father had an unquenchable thirst for fishing. One Saturday evening, in the middle of July he said we were going fishing in the morning. "Son, get all the gear ready, and ask the servant to prepare breakfast, and lunch for us for tomorrow". I was extremely excited. Going fishing with dad! Far out! I guess Uncle Lester must have been busy. Uncle Lester, father's cousin, was also a fanatic fisherman. He didn't like a kid coming along, I slowed-down the proceedings. Good! Uncle Lester was busy.

We woke up at three a.m. Ate breakfast while everyone in the family slept. I put the backpack on my back and held the fishing rods, and got onto the back seat of the Vespa; an Italian job; a deluxe model. Dad used to drive a red Triumph for years, but he had it dismantled, and kept all the parts on the terrace, as a momento. He loved that motorbike.

The sun was already beating down. In July, in the Punjab, in Lahore, Pakistan, one could not only fry an egg on the sidewalk; one could prepare the sausages and hashbrowns as well.

We rode down Mayo road and other roads I don't remember; I was only twelve years old when we emigrated to Canada, you know; but I do remember the Ravi was within the city limits, or at least, on the outskirts of Lahore. We got to the riverbank, parked the Vespa and started fishing immediately. Dad was in an exceptionally good mood; he even let me use the new fishing rod. But all I could come up with was turtles.

The weather was steadily becoming warmer. Father's concentration was becoming more intense as time clicked on. He really needed to catch a fish. His reputation as an angler was in jeopardy. Most of his friends had reiterated, "no good fishing on the Ravi this July". He needed a tall tale of triumph to recite. I was seriously hoping he would make a catch. I had also kept an eye on the group of crocodiles that had been inching their way closer to us, over the hours. It was about noon hour and the crocks were about fifty feet from us! Dad was oblivious to their presence

Thank goodness! A bite. It was a huge fish. It bent the rod like a hundred-pound turtle, but it ran with the line, (as if fish ran). It jumped and tugged like a monster, but I was sure it was a fish, a huge Angelfish. When my dad reeled it in to the shore, and as he netted the catch, I gave a sigh of relief that it was him who had the catch of the day, It would add to my credentials, for accompanying him fishing on future ventures. "Raymond is good luck", and all that.

While I was musing about future fishing trips and packing the gear and the fish, the crocodiles were suddenly too close for comfort; a mere fifteen feet away and almost ready to attack; my father noticed the danger for the first time since our sojourn. Seconds later we were fleeing for our lives. The heat had taken its toll on my father; he was too fatigued to kick-start the motor. In a panic he asked me to try. I pounced down on the starting pedal. The blessed thing started. We mounted the Vespa, and as dad slipped it into gear, I looked over my shoulder to see crocodiles on the attack. They were on the shore and about six feet behind us before the Vespa sped away leaving a trail of dust.


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Text and Images ©1999 Raymond Cooper