Mary Steffen
2017-11-09 08:17 am
Chasing a good dream Full of steam Across the seem
0 Justan Mitchell
2016-05-04 12:00 am
When my peripheral vision glanced at her she did not resemble the Queen of my dreams, not the Cleopatra whose footprints roamed across my back. Instead she painted her own impression upon me. And due to her own flare, I've grown tense to taste her plate of truth or dare. If you have not gathered the info yet, her Irish sunset over Germany before her floral scent approached me. Then I looked and her twinkle with a smile seductively manipulated the process to be hooked. And I am not speaking of the kind of love that "fictional" novels boast. In noticing her high esteem I could not retrieve in memory, surroundings that clearly reflected my wantings. Never to resemble a member of my mental figures of infinite atmospheres, and it is now clear, she was waiting just two steps to the right in the mid of night at a club for those who write. The next lesson is the next blessing, and I think she likes me too! But I'm not speaking of the kind of love that boast lust or that funny feeling from romance novels, not even the wish one makes as "Jeanine" awakes from her bottle. I am writing this for you. Your artistry equates to what my heart's song translates, and I can relate. The Proof of your mental weight has positive potential packed in places beyond superficial positions of great! All of this and I still can't pronounce your name, which leads me to say that I'm and glad my dreams have already been played way out across the intricate workings of Nature's space. And our collective destiny has been predetermined so what will becomes of it, is what we add to IT. Oh and by the way it is nice to know that chocolate is still love and that spirits still connect and grow, yes it is nice to know. Justan "Potential" Justan Mitchell Dangerous Soul Life
Gord
2014-09-02 12:00 am
I transform retribution, I collide with an enemy, Destined for fusion, Corroding my memory, Crashing the computer, That is me. I open on pretense false, In hopes to gain my loss, Yet no fate goes uncrossed, No face goes on unmarked, No bullet grazes, They self aim and kill marks. In honesty, I hope for their retribution, Not believing what you do, I find no institution for truth, Investigations reveal soot. To conceal boots under sock. Truth should be implied, Secrets shouldn't even be whispered, When no secret knock is employed. Among Imperials, two faces clash, Destroying the child middle, Purpose born was to protect class. Among the tyrants, A sleeping dog, His brother opposite, A sleeping god, Purpose forlorn and meaning lost. Shoot the gun across, regardless, Trees grow from the river, Implying a garden should exist. Yet at the bottom I find no solace. No mythical beast of which to conquer, Nor mythical flower of to tame beasts. So no feast among mythical followers. Sewn feet no longer bother to move. Brooms no longer even bother to sweep. I see Cost front by the citizen, Expected which are also to clean. Past participle's partisan cuts so cleanly, No partisan is left opposite to thee. Clearly, No god laughs, Sincerely, No god falters, And no human shots cast, Except into human carnage. No gain for loss, No pyrrhic victory, Due course. No force of sympathy, homeopathy, anthropology, from the horse. No, mostly poor choices. Voices ringing with phones dead. No voices in his head, Scream morality. of course. No soldier gains a victory. sans cost. None recognize the courage, of Hailey's comet. So the gunfire blazes onward. Amongst the slain, are the slain. Those who shoot have bullets same. My Deschamps is but modified Spinoza, Which I modify to fit in holster, As exactly as I imagined her, Far above a reasonable caliber. For a man who lacks resources, For as a woman he lacked chorus, Pestilence amongst the formal courtships. How do we create such a melody? Such harmony of utter melancholy. How do we classify such insanity? Such discourtesy on our society. Such, bullets access and exit quickly. Thus is the mark of beasts. Thus a heart no longer beats. Almost lack of mention was lack of faith. Remembered and forgotten to become same. All lost the castles of old days, Only sandcastles remain standing, Reminder of temporary management, Of how well that pays. I depart to vent, Find myself post-traumatic, I start to mention, Find myself post-dramatic, I mark myself bent, Find myself post dragging. Hoping to move forward, Forgetting that lost in battle. I sigh, I realize that's not possible. I stand purportedly screaming peace, Screaming bullets purportedly corpse. I stand in face of uproarious force, Screaming should-haves, Scoring for would-have, Who now will manage. Tired, I cast aside, Casting stones seems now juvenile. Especially in a world this finite, Who needs to choir for killing time? Button press' jest as being less vile, Truth as masked chide, Who now will bandage?
Gord
2014-08-15 12:00 am
Among Imperials, two faces clash, Destroying the child middle, Purpose born was to protect class. Among the tyrants, A sleeping dog, His brother opposite, A sleeping god, Purpose forlorn and meaning lost. Shoot the gun across, regardless, Trees grow from the river, Implying a garden should exist. Yet at the bottom I find no solace. No mythical beast of which to conquer, Nor mythical flower of to tame beasts. So no feast among mythical followers. Sewn feet no longer bother to move. Brooms no longer even bother to sweep. I see Cost front by the citizen, Expected which are also to clean. Past participle's partisan cuts so cleanly, No partisan is left opposite to thee. Clearly, No god laughs, Sincerely, No god falters, And no human shots cast, Except into human carnage.
Known Chumpsky
2014-05-06 12:00 am
God and I touched lips, and we tongue kissed. Man, if God's a guy I'll be so pissed. You can have him, to shoot orgasms across each others' backs in a dark bathroom. I refuse to take God's cock in my asshole. I'd take God out to dinner so I can meet his sister and fuck her. I heard she's younger and tighter, and when it comes to looks, I heard she's better. I begin to bestir; I'm afraid that God's a mister, and I want to fuck his sister.
The Sophist
2014-03-19 12:00 am
Hermes carries Lamb, Across his shoulders, Across timeless sands, More he travels; Still more land. Crying out in hope, Kriophoros left his home, Carried Lamb eyes to our souls. Mighty messenger of Gods, Of all the Heavens and Below. Calamis never same again, Good Sheppard waits for Lamb, Prepared to spill blood, For the better of the herd, For the chance to understand, The voice of the Absurd.
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
' Act of Faith ' The Weaving of the Web The Poet's Perception Caladbolg One Sword. Taking two hands to wield. Rainbow ruler of all others. Smiter of mountains and of hills. Made with molten faerie gold. Fashioned on the forge Of Fir Bolg giant, Balor of the Evil Eye, Defeated at Moytura, By the wiles of Tuatha de Dannan Magical warriors. In reprisal for the death of Lu of the Longhand, Son of their King. ' By this Sign, so shall you know me! ' "Remember this, Sire, And use the information well; For they plan to kill my Liege" So spoke the Lady of the Lake. " 'Twas the Vessel with the Pestle, That bore the potion that was Poison. And it was the Flagon emblazoned with his Dragon, They did fill with the brew that is True. But the serving-wench did slip, The platter fell to the floor And did crash on the flagstones there. The Vessel with the Pestle was smashed. Shattered into a thousand shards. Now the Flagon with the Dragon, Contains the potion that is Poison; And the Crystal Chalice, That was procured from the Palace Holds the brew that be True." Act of Faith I feel very vulnerable. I haven't put this much trust In Anyone or Anything, For longer than I can remember. Only time will tell If this act of faith is justified. The Artist's Explanation I have always been a fan of Arthurian legend, and in the end decided the ultimate act of faith, was the search for the grail. I have mixed up lots of ideas within my painting though, here is the official explanation. The hill on which she has reached the pinnacle, is Glastonbury Tor, but a thousand years ago the glow of what is now Glastonbury shines below her. In the sky there is the constellation Orion, this symbolises the king of the fairies, Gwyn ap Nudd, who legend has it lived on the Tor before being insulted by St Collumb, and in doing so left the Tor to forever hunt his hounds across the winter sky. Instead of the ruined church that is on the Tor now, I thought a small standing stone might suffice, and embedded within the stone in a similar way to the sword Excalibur was embedded in a rock, I have placed a wooden chalice, the moss on the rock and the shamrocks, also give the chalice a bed on which to lay. Shamrocks being symbolic not only of Ireland, but also the holy trinity. It is also a trefoil, which is the symbolic of Awen, which is the druid symbol for inspiration. On her wrist is a bracelet, which has fallen from the chalice and magically clings to her, the bracelet is silver like the moon with a fleur de lis (another symbol of the grail, and Mary mother of Jesus, coupled with the holy trinity). The lady is wearing nothing more than a simple white jacket and is naked below. She is also blindfolded, and therefore has to accept trust and her faith to protect her from this vulnerable position. She has come to the end of her quest and has found her grail, purely by way of faith, and is now tired and weary but still proud and undefeated , she is genuflecting to its wonder. The sword has two symbolisms, the first being that it was once broken and has been repaired. (This relates to the story of Galahad, repairing the magical broken sword, from the Fisher King stories, near the end of the grail quest) and the design of the sword I am using is unique in such that it is a copy of the original sword used by the genuine most famous knight in English History, Sir William Marshall. The long grass has various dandelion clocks settled within it, one has burst its seeds, sending them cascading across the painting, the dandelion means many things, including flirtatiousness ... However it is also in gypsy lore the symbol of transition and ascendancy from physical to spiritual. One last thing is that I have signed the painting twice, once in my usual way in the bottom right hand corner, and the other being the symbol of Rowan cut in Ogham on the standing stone. (My name of Ro being short actually for Rowanswood which is my bardic name.) - John Ogden (August 2010) The Druid's Interpretation The story of Bride or Brigid is close to so many people and there is a longing, especially from women today, to return to the balance there once was between men and women. The main story in these parts, and sort of on Beara too, is that all life somehow came from a womb and this once upon a time brought about the reverence of the goddess. The first two trees of the Ogham alphabet seem to guide this with Beith the Birch being the first life on earth and eventually the protector of women, and Luis the Rowan being the dragon's fire in all men who would burn rowan to bring the spirit of the goddess into them. For guidance, confidence, passion,bravery and focus especially when in council for trade, treaties, and sometimes preparation for war. Bride's symbol was the sword, in the story of the creation of the four Celle's of instruction, the first symbol, the symbol of imbolc,the first fire festival of the year, first quadrant of the Chaldean astrology chart. A tree of life, as above, so below. The sword created from fire, extraction of metals from ore, fires that were fuelled by the labours of men. The sword created by virgins, virgins by not yet having child, and not through no having sex, that would once one day be given to their mate. A founding of the tradition of the dowry today. If the male mate was slain and together they had no sons as heirs, the woman would take back the sword to be head of the household until another mate was found. In comes Patrick, a name so close to Patriarch, the incoming of the domination of the male hierarchy. The call to revere the male deity. When the man of the family was slain and there were no heirs; the woman, and any daughters, were the property of the chieftain. To serve as slaves or be appointed new mates, often in treaty.The sword was thrown into the lake or river to be passed on no more. The tradition of Bride, or Brigid, was eventually slain, and the tradition of Patrick took over. It is said that the legendary race of Formori never had women. They were men of the sea who knew how to extract gold and make rings.They would lure the Dannan or other land caring women with rings but for the sole purpose of breeding, not relationships, and any sons born would join the Formori. The legend is that Bride married Bres to try to return to the balance, that may be an example to the Formori, but it was not to be. In your picture this comes across as a woman either by the Formori or the Patriach demands of the ruling male deities ... but nobody could take that sword of balance away from her. It was not going to the lake !!! The standing stone to me is symbolic of the 2nd Cille of Instruction, who Bride is said to have taught Cian, son of Anu. The origin of Salmaine, that became Beltaine. Beltaine, one of the two times of the year the salmon swim up river, the second quadrant of the astrological cycle, the partnership and mating. The finding of the new true mate to pass the sword to. .... and the choice of blessed water to bring back life and fertility to make that possible. Oh, the blindfold? Another legend is that before Beltaine, women would approach the pool of Lasir blindfolded. And then after a blessing with water from the pool, were allowed to take off their blindfolds to have a vision of the man that would be their mate on Beltaine day. Lasir's legends are like Bride, except where Bride and Brigid led a herd of cows; Lasir led a flock of sheep. So when sheep are sheared at Beltaine time, there is a honoury toast to Lasir to ensue another blessed year ahead. Interestingly today, by the pool / well of Lasir ,there is no longer a standing stone, but a tall stump of an Ash tree that was felled there. Also in Lake Meelagh nearby, Bronze and Iron-Age swords have been found, by folks who were looking for the legendary Dagda's cauldron which is said to be in there somewhere. Not legends that are well known away from Co. Silgo, yet have travelled to be made into other stories. Of course , people of Co.Silgo made their own stories from what travellers told them too. Another insight? Dusti Rodes (2010)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
" This next piece of writing, contains strong sexual content material and graphic language. Many people find it both harrowing and disturbing. It depicts and catalogues a series of true-life events. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, of which there is one; the laws of libel prevent my naming and shaming the guilty; of which there are many." * Reader discretion is MOST STRONGLY advised - As it may easily offend. For this I make no apologies. Events like these are happening HOURLY all over the world at this moment in time, and society as a whole SHOULD be doing more to prevent such misery " ........................................ " IT CAN'T HAPPEN HERE, .....CAN IT?..." It's Sunday, She's staying at dad's flat tonight. She adores him; With the trust that is naturally instilled In a child. Dave, her father, Plays cards with his friends; While she watches, smiling. The pot is short; It's his call. He must make amends. Forty pounds is the bid. With a knowing nod, Colin folds his hand; And taking hers, Leads through the door To she knows where. The now empty bedroom That she sometimes has to share. Shush - don't make a noise; Your stifled cries, Will frighten the toys. Who sitting in silence, Can only watch. As Colin slowly unzips his trousers, And loosens his belt another notch. Her favourite doll, alone in the corner, Draped across the wooden chair; Can but bear silent witness To the saddening pain She experiences there. Next day, She is driven to school; By her dad. In a tatty Volvo. Be-spotted with rust coloured Splodges of primer paint. A stark anachronism Of Swedish sexual liberalism The grubbiness of the grey, Mirroring the semen-soiled nightdress; Of the night before. The paint spots, Ghostly echoes Of dried blood stains Splattered on the white fabric. Heralding her lost innocence; That she would need to wash out Later in the day. When she finally returned To the living hell That served as home. He pulls in at the pavement Saying yesterday was fun And that they should do it more often. He tells her to take care of herself. Sick joke, what? But no-body's laughing anyway. Deprived of decency By her father In that he doesn't even open the door. She rises from the well-worn seat And gets herself out Just like countless Whores before. In some final bizarre sexual gesture As he slowly drives away He also discards the now empty Crumpled, finished cigarette packet Aimlessly through the window Into the uncaring street. It in its turn, would be picked up By some scavenger hard up On his or her luck Anxious to discover If it held any small delight. And on discovering not, it would Be consigned as worthless rubbish And be discarded yet again To a life on the streets. Until eventually, battered and crushed By countless uncompromising souls It would cease to be recognisable For what it once was. Circles within circles. Such is the life we lead. Four friends, sit Sharing girlish giggles. Talking tampons and towels. Discovering the inward Functioning of females For the first time. Smiles, over sharing Secrets of sexuality With their mothers. But she's not laughing. Sitting in the classroom She is longing to tell, someone, About the happenings Of the previous night. To be able to unload All that crushing fear; That is building up Within her frightened frame. Afraid to go home, She hangs around after class Anxious to explain her reasons. But no-one is listening. Nor can they read The pleading in her scared eyes. So she goes home alone, again. Sitting watching television, A break from the drudgery Of endless days Doing household chores. Fear strikes her heart As she hears the key Entering the outside door. Because the washing has taken so long And about it, she cannot tell; The dust she hasn't cleaned From the TV Only causes her mother again to yell. Her anger quickly turns to rage; Followed closely by a beating, And another verbal tirade. Then follows the shouting And the slapping. The angry name calling Infers that someone is a whore. Leading to her being pushed downstairs And landing on the hall floor. She pushes Amy into the cellar cupboard, Then callously locks the door. Leaving Amy, cowering in huddled fear, Upon the dark, coldest floor. Later, in her room, Curled up, tearful, Trying desperately to block out the pain. Lies listening to her sad sobbing. She closes her eyes. Escaping sleep is not easy in coming; But further along the hallway, Someone else is. Urgently calling for Amy Beckons her to her mother's bed. There, between thrashing thighs, And deep moaning sighs, Amy is forced to give her mother Sexual 'head'. Coming home, To the usually empty house, She cannot help but notice The smart car Parked outside. Putting her key In the door, As she has done So many, many times before; She is met by Geoff, The new man, in her mother's life. On the surface He seems very nice. Picnics of strawberries, wine And chocolate ice. And even washing up, Afterwards. School sports day comes, Giving her the chance To exercise her rights As a child; To youthful fun. Sack race successes, Loud accolades. Hiding the depths of depravity, That lies dormant. Buried deep within. It starts with a present, At bedtime. " Put it on, and come and show us how it looks." Simple games, Amongst the adult friends. Pictures are taken. Childish at first, It soon turns nasty; Leading to lewdness and lechery. Removing Geoff's trousers and pants, While her mother looks on; And laughs. Then starts the painful ordeal Of nightly rape. And the utterances of the threatening lie That if she ever dares to tell someone It would surely cause her to die, After a time, She can bear no more Of Geoff's disgusting behaviour. Goes to her father's workplace Hoping on hope That he'll prove to be her saviour. She tells him all That's been going on; And could she come to live with him, Please? Fraught with anger, Fired by fear; He goes and gives Geoff A beating with a garden spade. In his frustration at failing To protect his daughter From this pair of human animals With their filthy habits so degrade. Then he storms out, Leaving Amy to receive Yet another beating From her mother. That leads her to being locked In the cupboard Once again. The broken shard Salvaged from the shattered Kitchen window By which her father had entered Proves to be the key To successful self mutilation To which Amy administers Readily. When the time comes To leave her old school The teacher's reports proclaim That Amy is both clever and wise. But they all still Just sit and listen While her mother Continues to tell The same pack of lies. How Amy sits reading Quietly, in her room, For much of the time. And how she's always Out playing with her friend; But that is untrue From beginning to end. The teacher says Amy could do With really coming out of her shell. Hopes that she'll enjoy her new school; And with that, she wishes her well. Sitting with her new found friends, Thinking that this place, Could indeed be really cool. Then one says, Someone is trying to greet her, From a van. Parked outside the school. She peers across the open courtyard. At her father, who's come to meet her. Full of reasons, Why he hasn't been more often. Excuses that money has been So short lately; Sometimes he hasn't eaten. Now he's come to take her out, About the true reason for his motives, There still exists more Than a little doubt. Having bribed her, With a Big Mac meal, With Coke and a Cadbury's Curly Whirly, He apologises that he has no more sweets; But if only he had more money, He could afford to buy her Lots of treats. Then the unsubtle suggestion, That she could really help Daddy, Just by working the nearby streets. Standing on a dim Lamp-lit street; In her denim jacket, And her flowery Short length skirt; Wearing virginal white gym socks, with matching plimsolls. Her long hair , shining, Looking very much her age. Having only turned thirteen, But for a little while. People, from which she Should get only love; Blatantly exploiting her sexual genes. Although she cannot spell Paedophile; She is painfully aware of what it means. " For a wank, charge'em twenty five quid, If they want a blow-job, charge them thirty" Practising that will corrupt her mind; Into believing love and sex, Is always something That is sordid and dirty. A sexperienced competitor, In these matters, Gives her, and her dad; What amounts to a friendly warning. This particular spot, Is her pitch. And her pimp Will not be so tame; So her father, Just moves on with her, To somewhere else. In his dubious quest It would seem he has no shame; With his repeated attempts, To get ' on the game'. The local lorry park, Proves a likely playground; For the sort of games, He has in mind. Providing a service, For all kinds Of men. The young, the old, and the lonely. Not the actual full sex, though: But just your blow and hand-jobs only. Making sure that the clients, Come in style; Being very sure to use a condom, All the while. He does a deal, Just for a full blow-job; " You know how, don't you, just go and suck his prick; It'll be all be over in a minute!" But it doesn't just take that quick. Squatting, She gives a blow-job To an unknown, Standing man. While her poncing pimp Of a dad, Sits smiling, In his grubby little van. Suck, suck, sucking, On a dirty, crusted, Foul-smelling prick, That's making her feel So, so sick. Wondering why it is That when you Want them to, they can never come Really quick. And when it's finally finished; She finds the smell of sweat and semen, Has left her feeling Really sick. Dave, buys her silence, With a fiver. Then he takes her back home; Double quick. Dusti Rodes (2009) POSTSRIPT TO ' IT CAN'T HAPPEN HERE. .....CAN IT? * " Children have the right to be listened to. The messages that they give us are often painful and disturbing, and challenge our capabilities to actually hear what they are in fact saying and take them seriously. Our conditioned instinct is to recoil from what we are hearing and deny the reality of what is being said. The act of sexual abuse of a child involves a fundamental betrayal of trust, and an abuse of power, which has devastating consequences for the child. Undermining the basic requirements of a child for relationships built on trust, that are both dependable and loving. This gives rise to the premise that children not only have to be heard but also need to be healed from the trauma of such experiences. The child's right to be respected as an individual person should be unquestionable; but it is a long way from being generally accepted within our society."
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
TOO MANY TEARS Too many tears in that house Too much shouting, Followed by silence. Too many tears in that house What secrets hide behind that white door? Secrets that aren't so private anymore. Too many tears in that house The last month's ironing, Piled high behind doors. Remnants of meals, partially uneaten, Strewn across the floors. Too many tears in that house Rags at the windows. Washing left on the line, For weeks on end. Hedge and garden, overgrown. Too many tears in that house Black refuse bags, often three or four, Piled high outside that door. Rotting, ripped open by cats. Contents acting as a beacon For rats. Too many tears in that house. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Ode to Martha My muse, a Harridan hag? I don't think so! Some have familiars, in the shape of cats. Others have Spirit Guides, Which are Red Indian warriors. I don't do all that PC stuff, And say they are Native North Americans! Me? My muse is a wizened old woman. I was killing time, standing outside the Hospice shop, Waiting for my watch repair to be ready. One split second she wasn't there, I swear, The next she was! She appeared from nowhere, I'm telling you! The encounter with the woman in the grey shawl. It took just ten minutes that was all. But it will last a lifetime. Mine. Was it real, or was it a dream? Was she a witch or a wraith? Merely a ghost or a gregarious goblin, In disguise? The situation certainly had all the makings of a mystery, And all the trappings of a thriller. The people I tell just stare at me strangely. Who wouldn't? I ask myself. I'd probably do just the same, If it wasn't for the fact, That it had happened to me. She came from the North, or so she said. Irmerston is a name I recall her using. More than once. Or was it that she had relatives there? Was I really 'touched by an angel'? There was definitely ' a laying on of hands', As in the biblical sense. Could this have been an encounter of the Fourth kind? Hebrews thirteen has a lot to answer for. She said she was eighty five. And had been a Mormon since she was forty. But in some lights I would have sworn she wasn't yet sixty. In others, she had a face that had seen more than a thousand summers. I've heard of shape-shifters, I never thought to meet one. Many say I talk at tangents, And maybe they are right. I do waffle on a bit. Never keeping to the same subject for long. Fleeting thoughts, Forever fluttering, Like a butterfly in its short life span. Over the last couple of years, The diagnosis of my chronic atrial fibrillation, Has caused me to consider my life expectancy. And to realise it may be seriously shortened At any time in the near future. But she spoke confidently and authoritatively, About longevity. Quoting several incidences of people living to a good age. Katherine Hepburn living to a hundred. Her long relationship with Spencer Tracy. And made it sound so matter of fact, That Katherine had given him a cup of tea, Shortly before he finally died. It was as if she had been there at the time. Her opening gambit had been to draw my attention, To a boxed set of Frank Sinatra records. Displayed in the shop window. As I intimated earlier, I'm sure I was alone outside that shop. And the sound of her speaking to me had startled me, Into realising she was standing beside me. She started by saying Frank had a daughter, Nancy. And a son, Frank Jr. She talked about his Mafia connections. When I retorted that rumours were rife, During all of Sinatra's life. But that he had never publicly admitted to the allegations. She intimated that the reason being was, That Frank had not actually done anything 'bad' so to speak. At that moment, she gave me the distinct impression, That she might have known him and his family intimately. But how could that be? I was becoming afraid of the enormity, Of the developing situation. So I made my excuses to leave, And she let me go wishing me well. We parted. Me going my way, she hers. I picked up the watch from the menders. It must have taken all of two minutes. When I suddenly realised the terrible mistake I had made, In cutting our conversation short. I began searching the town. Shop by shop. Each individual lane up and down. But to no avail. Seeming she had disappeared the same way she arrived. Suddenly. It wasn't till I was on the bus travelling home. Feeling thoroughly desolate. That I heard her voice again. But this time it was different. She was inside my head, talking to me. She said artists, of all kinds, Needed inspiration from time to time. And she would be mine, if I let her. I know now I made a mistake, I thought I was her 'mark' in the town, And she was just getting ready to put the sales spiel on me, To buy her that expensive bottle of sherry. That she said was the only one that she drank. She'd talked about many things, And how everybody had vices. Drugs, booze, cigarettes etc. She said how hers weren't too bad. Just a tipple now and again of the sherry, That could be bought in Tesco's. (Which had been across the way, From where we had been standing) At nine pounds a bottle. Here we go, I'd thought, Here comes the pitch; “Hard times 'n' all, for an old lady. You seem a nice person, Could you see your way clear to buying me a bottle, maybe?" This is why I had up and ran. But instead, here was she offering me the gift! Some writers have residencies. I am hers. Where we will go from here, is any body's guess. Just watch this space! But I do suggest you don't waste your time, Standing outside the Hospice shop, In the vague hope she might just amble along. Because she's mine, And I'm keeping her! Dusti Rodes (2006)
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