The Sophist
2014-05-10 12:00 am
Education in some countries is just pure sophism, I decree to stop this, This writ from the wrists of the Sophist, The Prophet of Modern Economics decrees fatwas, I decree a fatwa on stockpiling gross product, A fatwa on Gucci, Prada, Dolce & Gabanna. I decree a fatwa on the arms race and the misconduct and misappropriated actions committed by the powers meant to help us. Or at least help make shit less like a world of make-shift shiffs chaotic, With less false promises to put less narcotics, In the streets, our food supplies, and antibiotics, All these soup lies make me vomit, World spirit will not die, But it crawls, Dragging body behind hands, Counting months in brief mnemonics.
0
The Sophist
2014-03-18 12:00 am
Dwelling in the desperate, Hermitage of my heart, Life is apparent, Yet it appears to be not, As it seams, Cupid's eyes blinded by cloth yards, Shooting at places unseen, And all the arrows' arc, Landing on me, Heart changing by second, Changing more in between, This Cupid gone blinded, Young, fat little fiend, Now days pass idyllically, Lost in the breeze, Days Simon Iff spends searching the trees, His goal has been set, Simple Simon sets free, Hiram Abiff in the woods on his knees. Arms cut from body, Both hands full of dandies.
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-12 12:00 am
NOT ALL ANGELS NECESSARILY WEAR THEIR WINGS AT ALL TIMES Silly things. What does your lipstick taste like? How does it feel to kiss those luscious lips? What would it mean to hold you in my arms, And have yours in mine? How will it feel to have our bodies entwined? You have released pent-up passion, That I had almost forgotten. You have placed me on a pedestal so high, The fall seems so far down. I hope that my angel wings still work, As I haven't had to use them For such a long time.
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
A Week Away A week away A cottage in the Cotswolds Solitary single socks All in a line On parade Hands like hooks Feet that throb Barms and breezes In Blackpool Fortunes found and told Tramlines Scarring the seascape Soaring seagulls Hawk-like hands Flaying feet Seagulls that screech Mayhem in Mablethorpe Being Stumped in Boston As to which way to go Kiss me quick Squeeze me slow hats For edible orifices Wonka's Willies Trams travelling Towards the Tower And down the Golden Mile From Fleetwood North and South Piers Sandcastles Big and small Towards Town Postcard pictures Picture postcards Pencil drawings By computer The Mere at Marton Limousines And lycra-clad mirth-makers Mobster's metal machine Made from a Mini National Savings & Investments building Blocking the breeze And the light Standing in it's shadow Comfortable caravans Laughter from Leighton Jokes from Jamie Sparkling grape juice All the way from Grimsby Via the M18 Panoramic views From the highest motorway In Britain Deep dales High Pennine peaks In Yorkshire Rain and sunshine Traffic build-ups In Blackburn Blues in Burnley Families fighting Four-pint pitchers Of foaming ale Mussels and whelks Oysters and orange squash Cockles and crabs People driving Dangerously long miles Without falling faint Of fatigue Passion in the Pennines The castle moat Golden sands Tilting telegraph poles Going up And coming down Steep steps To silver sand Shorelines stretching As far as the eye Can see Whirling wind turbines Whitewashed windmills Scattered over the Northwest frontier Unfurled flags Flying furiously In a westerly wind Cod and curry sauce Pen'orth o'scraps And pots of mushy peas Wrapped in writing Mablethorpe Messenger Blackpool Gazette Cotswold Courier Yesterday's news Today's chip wrappers Tomorrow's waste. Dusti Rodes (2006)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
In the Wind The lonely nights. They were the worst part. The long hours spent building the bike. Burning the midnight oil until the cold light of dawn took over the illuminations. He sat, oil-stained mug in his grease-decked ham of a fist. Java's best, steaming, burning his throat raw with every lug. Was this his thirteenth or fourteenth today? He couldn't remember now. The massive doses of caffeine failing in their allotted task of feigning off fatigue; the accumulated grounds covering the mug bottom in a remnant of Mississippi mud, deep, from down in the Deltas. The first finger and thumb of his free hand were deftly putting the finishing touches to the joint he was rolling. It was a little art he'd picked up during his frequent stays at Her Majesty's Pleasure at various establishments around the country. His makings lay strewn over the old table that served as totem-factotum to his needs. Diner, workbench, even pillow on multiple occasions over recent months. He raised the cigarette to his lips, and with a single action that comes with years of practise, sealed it with his saliva. With it now ensconced in his mouth, he reached for the lighter, lit it, and took a deep toke. The sweet smell permeated his flaring nostrils, while he drew down the smoke deep into his lungs. As he exhaled, his heavy eyelids closed momentarily. The necessary effort required to open them again proving too much in his tired state, he allowed his mind to wander. Where had it all started? When was it now? Pour quoi? The combination of drugs and fatigue was fast inducing sleep, which only served to confuse the thought processes he was desperately trying to assimilate to no avail it seemed. The auto-jumble sale in Birmingham, that was it! That's where he'd first seen the bike, and realised its potential. An ex-WD combo. A 1948 six hundred cc, single cylindered side valve, from the Birmingham Small Arms company. With a camouflage green paint job. 'Distinctive', the vendor had called it. Hardly Milwaukee Iron, but beggars can't be choosers, can they? He'd only paid two hundred quid for the lot. And the seller had thrown in set of front suspension springer forks from a 1949, M20. The 500cc model that the dispatch riders normally used in the wartime. They were standard equipment on both the combination and solo set-ups. And they were chromed already! Save him a fortune that would. He'd altered the rake on the steering to an inch and three quarters over stock. That'll give him that low-rider effect he wanted. Just like Peter Fonda's in the film. Dusti Rodes (2007)
\/