Gord

2014-09-04 12:00 am

No void ever felt more like home.
No survivor of the pipe ever wrote,
So white stars filled the sky often,
Orchestrating slightly bizarre concepts,
On equally bizarre table of conception.

Gord

2014-08-21 12:00 am

I innocently sat sidelined,
While sidewinder missiles,
Blackened and filled the sky.
They saw no oversight.

Then calamity, personnel,
Call out and rome fell,
The claim don't prose well.
Well, I suppose they don't.
But I never was no poet.

The Sophist

2014-07-30 12:00 am

Once a me wan't blissing his kings.
One said, "You bring me down fool,
You'll be the next that I fling."
I know not the world, 
But knew he could toss,
He flung fools via sling.
I'm no albatross, 
I thus fear the sea;
Whose direction it faced. 
As a favor for me,
If only poor kings flung us fools to their dreams.
I dream of a land filled with kings being fool-led.
Currying favors for an all-curry feast with warm drinks
 and stale bread.
Instead I packed my bauble knife for that night I fled.
In stead understanding this king was a beast with no
 heart in his head.
Once I peaced though I pissed on his rings.

The Sophist

2014-07-30 12:00 am

Yawn,
A boring thought,
Moving on.

Blah,
The time we've fought,
Force mignon,
For nei' were strong.

Plod,
Reason/not,
Such are battles,
Which we ought,
Discard to dogs,
Trained to chew them.

Humdrum,
Through coral caught,
Stone filled satchels,
Path danger fraught,
Mind's a fog,
Not mad at you though,
I'm only mad duly.

Doldrums,
I wish it would stop,
I'm mad at myself,
For letting this rot,
I'm not just licking frogs,
My croak at the moon shows,
I only care truly,
If you care about you.

Pedestrian,
Living life at the top,
Panopticon cell,
And fuck is it hot,
But we sit writing songs,
I croak at the moon slow,
We make a pair fool-ly,
Sympathetic,
Two lives out of tune,
At different ends of the spectrum,
Beauty ensuing.

Apostates to our parents' dreams,
Too old for pride, 
But maybe peace.
We'll love in long strides,
A boring thought,
Despite defeat,
We still move on,
Lows bolstering highs,
Finding new regimes.

Gord

2014-06-11 12:00 am

I dander,
To her I cling tightly,
In her I find me.
In me she finds her;
So clothesline or a ligature,
Is just a state of mind being.
At least, that's what I'm seeing;

So I pander,
I find the back end of a hand,
Which leaves me more filled with anger.
Yet everyday I manage.

Until I found out the sun is dangled,
So perhaps too, the moon is dangled,
Leaving me in anger.
My love in the clutches of another,
My whole life fandangled;

Gord

2014-04-15 12:00 am

My new world is atwixt.
Filled with candy and chocolate.
With a wafer so crisp.

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-12 12:00 am

Bluesman.

He was jist sat there.
Strummin' away.
Softly.

Striking vacant chords.
Filled full
Of notes.
In various hues
Of the Blues.

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

A Day in the Life


I Morning

Up early for a Sunday
The clock says eight
But even that's late
For what we have to do
And where we've got to be

Breakfast hastily eaten
A schedule that has to be beaten
The taxi comes just on time
The clock strikes the half nine
The train will leave at ten
So we have to be there then


II In a railway waiting room

People sitting
Waiting for the train
Some just there
To get out of the rain
The sun is starting
To shine now
Making the outlook
Better somehow

The fire
Glows brightly
Offering security
In its warmth
There must be a hike
Somewhere
By the amount of people
Going there
Dressed in their anoraks
And their boots
A passing express
Gives warning toots

Waiting for the train
To friends
Still far to go
Before our journey ends
Although having already
Come this far
Still there are miles
To be travelled
By car
Sitting patiently, waiting
For the train
Marking time
To the pouring rain


III A ride through the countryside

At our destination
We are met
Commiserations
Hoping we did not get
Too wet

Outside the station
They had parked the car
Comfortable seats
Our journey
Not to mar

We are off
Through the countryside
Making quite a pleasant ride
Of our quest
To the coast
Never really deciding
Which we prefer the most

Ever onwards
We are drawn
Towards the outskirts
Of Eastbourne


IV Eastbourne

Eating eggs
Hard boiled
Liver sausage sandwiches
Cheese and ham
Fried sausages
Oranges too
What a sight
For people to view

Throwing stones
Into the sea
Stopping to watch
The tide roll in
Then a walk
Along the pier
Perhaps to stop
For a cool glass of beer

Buying ornaments
Made of glass
Playing the games
That made us laugh
Throwing balls
Into walls
Listening to the radio
In the warm

Then on again
It was said
Towards the crags
Of Beachy Head


V Beachy Head 

Climbing up
To the Bell Tower
Pausing to view
A lonely flower
The long climb
Winding a few
The breathlessness
Well worth the view

On looking out to the sea
So calm
One could scarce believe
It could do so much harm
Then suddenly
The gunshots
Warning us of the coming rain
So we quickly make our descent again

The rabbit droppings
In the tufted grass
Is the sight
I remember last
The gulls wheeling
On the wind
Showing aerial acrobatics
That Man will take
A thousand years
To conquer


VI Newhaven

When the tide
Is full in
It is a facade
To walk along
The esplanade
At Newhaven

For the angry waves
Batter the man-made wall
Persistently trying
To make it fall
Spraying
Unwary travellers
With showers of stones
And the flying
Sea spray
That rusts
Even the lamp posts
Within a month

The road to the west
This is our quest
Pass the ox-bow lake
On the river
That meanders
Through the open fields
Filled with
Sweet smelling air

The road takes us
Past the harbour
Where, the ' Chichester Star '
Lies anchored there
Moored at her rest


VII Brighton

The Palace Pier
On a Sunday
Even in March
Full of people
Having fun

Some lie on the beach
Catching the sun
That hides
Behind the clouds
Of the rain-filled sky

But here we do not stay
Perhaps I'll return
Some other day
The time has come
Not to linger
Drawn ever onwards
By a wandering singer

Dressed in sandals
And in jeans
Singing songs of the
Changing scenes
Sentiments felt
By myself
He did quote.
He sang,
Whilst I wrote


VIII Shoreham

Dark, dank and dismal
Grey and grim
Stands the power station

The side, the day-tripper
Does not see
The squalid surroundings
Of the industrial side
Where the rubber factory
Takes the coke works
For its bride

There, beside a mountain
Of metal scrap
Stands a fellow
In a cloth cap
Surrounded by
Carcasses of cars
Burnt out
By long cold fires

Wasteland covered
With prickly briars
Rubble strewn around
Sweet papers, magazines
Stones cover the ground

The road carries on
Pass the gasworks
To playing fields
Where people sit watching
Others using their energy
To a useless end

A steel girdered bridge
Spans the road
Along by which
The river still flowed


IX Worthing

Having high tea
In the lounge
Sardines, rolls
Tea and toast
Watching the sea
Leave the coast

Playing the pin machines
With pennies
Reading the paper
To find the news
Desperately needing
To use the loos

Off on our trek again
Running from the
Fast oncoming rain


X Half a league .....

Destination somewhere
In the west
Selsey, probably
At the very best

Time, like the tide
Rolling on
Light of day
Has nigh nearly gone

The lights burning
Along the road
Turn from the palest pink
To shimmering gold

Eve draws on
Darkness, soon to follow
A level-crossing
That isn't so level
In fact, the road
Looks like more of a bevel

The road becomes
Winding and long
Making us remember
The young minstrel's song

Following the line
Of cat's eyes
Broken only
By the sound of sighs

A solitary star
Guiding us, as of old
The weather becoming
Increasingly cold

The long boring night
Is broken
By the bright lights
Of the big service station
At Crawley

Say as they might
To me, the most welcoming sight
Was that of The Thorns pud
At Horley

Liquid refreshments
For parched dry throats
Although there was nowhere
To hang our coats

Having once
Quenched our thirsts
The road leads on
To Billinghurst

Then on down
Cowper's Lane
Just as it starts
Again to rain

In the comfortable warmth
Of her home
We are again
Free to roam

Tea for three
And one for coffee
Arguing who'll get to eat
The very last toffee

Onwards then,
Homeward bound
The car really seems
To leave the ground

Till the lights of Croydon
Are encountered
And as we are at our door
" It was fun, we must do it more!"

The two of us
Climb the stairs
Once again
To all our cares

Very quietly
Into bed
Nothing more
It has all been said.


Dusti Rodes (1975)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining
(From 'Working the Wilderness')

The authorities decision last Fall, to only empty the organic waste bins every two weeks from then on, worked in the Winter when nothing was growing and the temperature was zero or below most of the time.
But the warmer weather has arrived, and now the bins contents such as mown grass cuttings, rotting weeds, chicken carcasses, egg shells, fish heads, tails 'n' scales , animal's entrails and the like, stinks to high heaven.
The bin is teeming with ants and their eggs, absolutely mingin' with maggots, and the air is filled with flies most of the time.
But they say there's a silver lining in every cloud, if only you bother to look for it, don't they?
The bait for my fishing don't cost me anything no more.
In fact I'm even making profit by selling some of the ant eggs, casters and maggots to my neighbours for THEIR fishing needs!


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Clearing Levees and Cleaning out Culverts
From ‘Working the Wilderness’

They moved in a monster of a machine the other day. It was mounted on a very large low-loader, pulled by one real fancy rig. With a bucket jaw, mechanical mandibles, and telescopic legs powered by hydraulics, it looked just like a giant locust.  In leaving the landscape raped and ravaged by its passing, it might just as well have been. What with the wet winter and the really cold spring, Mother Nature got off to a bit of a slow start with her growing plans this year. But it must be said we’ve had some exceptional sun these last couple of months and she’s caught up magnificently. Folks around these parts were looking forward to an abundant harvest of wild fruits. Blackberries, elderberries, apples, even a few pears from the only tree hereabouts. Even the oaken bushes were full of acorns at this time; the pigs would have a real feasting this Fall. But it is all history now. The man from the Ministry decides last winter’s floods were too much and now the levee needs widening down by the bridge and several of the culverts could do with some serious cleaning. So they sent in that mammoth on Monday.  To get the trailer and its wide load down to the bridge, the rig took the most direct route it could, tearing up the surrounding vegetation as it lumbered along in its task. Gone are the banks of brambles full of blackberries where they cut out the culverts, so too are the briars with their precious bounty of rosehips. The birds will sorely miss them this winter if it turns as cold as they say. There was a fine crop of elderberries on those several trees down by the bridge. I was looking forward to maybe celebrating some special event with the produce formed from the fruits. Looks like I can only dream now of what might have been.   They were uprooted easily by that mechanical monstrosity in its relentless quest to widen the levee. As me and the Maverick went walking this morning, I couldn’t but help notice how desolate it all looks at the moment. The grassland all torn up, rotting down with the effects of the last few days’ dry weather, now soaked by last night’s storm. Rivulets of water running down ink-black soil banks, exposed by the monster’s jaw work. The rutting of the pathways caused by the sheer weight of trailer and the rig’s tyre tracks also being filled by the fallen rain. A real shame I reckon. But Nature being what she is, she’ll survive the ravages and in time return the status quo, just differently


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Jist Jammin'

The lights are low.
Smoke is so thick; 
You can just reach out
To take a handful, 
To put in pockets
Of faded denim.

Somewhere, 
Deep in the mist, 
A solitary guitarist sits.
Slouched on a beaten up bar stool.
Strummin' slowly on an acoustic.
Bottle-neck slide wails from the pressure
Of a real bottle.
The gob-iron moans, 
In harmonic reply.

The air is filled, 
With the smell of tired sweat.
Formed by hard labour
Of a day in the field
Or on a hot factory floor.

Bootleg booze, 
Piedmont cigarillos, 
and Cheap cologne.

This is blues, 
At its best.


Dusti Rodes (2007)