The Sophist
2014-10-21 12:00 am
Et Alibi, 'Tween Taliban and I. Weak tale of sufi giants, Coat tailing limpid skies; Dissatisfied. Attacking at their eyes; Weak blades of sikh tyrants, Vacate unqualified, To sanctify, Those left just nearly blind, Lost in wanton silence, Dreaming of a guise, Declassified, A gentle lullaby, Babies turned Goliath, Simple story ramified.
0 
The Paraffin One
2014-10-08 12:00 am
Depressed, never to make lasting impression. A denizen of hope to never make the finish. Yet gladly they have made no procession, A gentleman leaves, not extincting the fish; Yet, gladly the simple fish onward, Unrealized is their colony of cowards, No love and no goal worked toward, Fools with lofty goals pulled Earthwards, Nobody cheers as the people awe. Nobody cares as the people stand jaw slack. Nobody leers in care as they're not the law, Nobody fares well, so they want old law back. However the rulebook of old is lost. Common sense now too far past is post.
The Paraffin One
2014-10-01 12:00 am
No glance, only mention of Descartes, Reference is lost in the moment, Youth culture stole musical art, Changed preference to non-impotent. Where is left for the lost artist? No venue for the middle aged artisans, So it seems in bed, as the allegorist, All hurt for the chorus of musicians, However bedrooms are the preferred court. Aptly put nobody pays cash anymore, And some end up overpaid in sport, Wailing are the preferred poor, However, nobody screams out of valor, So everybody must scream out in squalor.
The Paraffin One
2014-10-01 12:00 am
Tragically the adolescence columbine, Society takes blame for outlier. Yet take no blame for the combine, Priority is lost to class tier. Yet they see no problem, all is well. As long as one future desire's feces, Vast open fields with enemies to fell, Yet they see no problem in our species, Masking an issue too virtuous to kill. The children need guidance, More knowledge and less grades. For man is always capable of buoyance, Only starting of poor knowledge in trades. Perhaps they missed the lessons available, Perhaps the guidelines made them incapable.
The Sophist
2014-09-25 12:00 am
Decay and the rifle alone. Censored by Gods as cold winter snow passes men stuck in glop as it blows. Who knows? What the fuck does a soul call a home? Accepting ideals without gloves being shown. Refuting belief but still knowing that something transcends all of time, space, math, and the know-how. Gloating but feeling in pain for lost souls turned wayward, corrupt, or depraved by the fallout. Take it in, as it turns out, by talking in strides with the crowds. Softly speak glop when it counts. Slowly speak up, and never speak out.
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
2014-08-28 12:00 am
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.
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.
Gord
2014-07-30 12:00 am
The illumination now seems like magic, Flashing fights amid darkening background. Giants no longer able to wish to fight, Only to die to be back among the pack, To re-ignite, to fight from higher ground. Ironically battle is lost by those with the foundry. Their heaven lacked the fortifications necessary.
The Sophist
2014-07-15 12:00 am
Belly poked by intrauterine demise - infanticide - now I can poke her in her thighs. I fantasized that maybe the baby would have cried, or that I would have stopped it, crazy by the pain I feel inside. Now I swear there's nothing there. I lost the key to the divine. I dreamed a life of orgies but my sex life is austere. Who cares? I drink nightly, and dream of an affair with a tryst. I jot prose for love not there and recite them to the one that I declare. I'm sick from life; to levy death is fair. I'm too sick to spread my sickness. Give them death, who fucking cares?
The Sophist
2014-07-03 12:00 am
Another victory means I'm undone, Wars are lost where battles won, I can no longer fight with spirits dead, The bards asleep, the songs are done. Pyrrhus produced a record for fun, Ruined industry in one fell swoop, Breaking critics' thumbs, Sounds of cyanide group hit number one. Perhaps best to join the opposition, For fear that death becomes my own position, My army met attrition, Attrition proved a worthy foe. But if they come, I must not go, For I doth know, sky hide not sun, Nor drums, moon, cloud or snow. I'll shine bright 'til my gallows strung, I saved the Kingdom; Now I'm scum.
The Sophist
2014-06-27 12:00 am
If this be in 'plaint, Let it slap the taint, My GAD spooks the best in the medical community, Gadzooks, If I were a saint, I'd be the saint of head cases with no cure or immunity, Let loose, No 5150 in the Land of Impunity.
The Sophist
2014-05-20 12:00 am
"Perchance to make music to move them. Your music is blandly, boringly, gruesome." "Your attitude's gruesome. Perchance to make music to sooth them of their hideous minds lost in loathsome confusion. Let me be eaten by dogs if it means not bowing to the flogs cast by unjust retribution. Perchance to be cat's paw; to flog yarn worlds strewn loose by melodic volution." "Your mind's in dilution. All these ideals are depraved convolutions." "My mind's in Confucians. I seek absolution while you seek out a stage to pimp tone prostitution. Fucking air pollution is what it is, no good contribution in the vast distribution of data and discs." "You're best substitution; you just add trills or a long resolution." "I swear I do more than just posture and bull shit with forms and techniques, curse your persecution!" "Curse us. Goodbye, writ of execution!"
The Sophist
2014-03-24 12:00 am
For all those lost in darkness of the rain, Shelter's on the way, and sun will shine again, Fluttering truths in their sleepless pain, All their dreams estranged. For all whose love still rules the heart, Love itself possesses nothing for our art, We row ourselves upstream in barrels, Throwing Apollo ahead-start.
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
2014-03-05 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
Summer the First Time Inspired by John Ogden's painting ' The Awakening ' Who was it, That said; Tarts have no hearts? No amount Of money ever. Would cover the cost, Or ease the pain. Of Innocence lost. Or was it offered Willingly. As a Sacrifice. On the Altar of Love? The Night knew, But was not saying. The Morning saw, And never uttered a word. Dusti Rodes (2009)
\/