Kodyboi

2014-04-23 12:00 am

I remember when we broke up the first time.
I remember trying to do nothing.
Saying "this is it", like a Jackson hit.
I remember not seeing you for about a month.
I remember waking up,
I remember remembering a punch in the mouth,
Reminding me to chart future relationships out.

I'm calling it off.
The wedding and the dates you liar.
I'm telling you off this time.

We'll never, ever ever get back together.
Go talk to your friends. Talk to mine.
Waste your time,
Spend your time playing pretend.
End up like Islam on the Balkan Island.

I'm really going to miss writing.
Miss writing is miswriting,
Misleading my idols into the trivial.
Hiding the infinite potential on vinyl.
Throw on the CD, it's more indie than mine.
More John Frusiante than girls from Niandra.
So for another month I'l find peace of mind.

So you called me up,
To talk about like love, but no luck.
Because I was like, and he was like.
and they were like.
Even his parents didn't like him.
So he was like, ugh, boring.
and I'm always touring, so like, fuck him.

We're never, ever, ever, getting back together.
Your friends balk, and my friends bawk.
So the whole thing is pretty complimentary.

Aharon Yosef

2014-04-14 12:00 am

Vested in reality,
Blood of beasts and saints.
Destin blind with empathy,
Believing self divinely great.
And I suppose that's fine?
I mean, Hey;
What of judgements cast as mine?
Howbeit, 
What of judgements cast as they?
Pretending watch though eyes are blind.
Lay my head in shallow water,
Watch my face in clouds pass by.
Let me drown as hallowed fodder,
The message, 
Nearing.
The message,
Fie!
Simple timeless truths elude us.
Clouds in our heads,
Dreams in our skies.

The Sophist

2014-04-10 12:00 am

It's not easy being green.
It's not easy helping people make their own disease.
My name is Unimportant; 
I carry scopolamine flowers,
And I pay nothing for it.
My name?
I'm Confused;
I carry scopolamine flowers giving greetings profound.
Playing God of the hour,
Fleeting bodies abound.
Falter and fumble and fall to the ground;
Witnessing light of a paradise found.
Leading the blind,
With my feeble eyes,
Misplaced moral outrage,
Attempts to rewind.
To see druidic days,
Where there's bodies unfounded.
Peat bogs set ablaze,
Simple murders unsounded,
Lacking cause,
Mental haze killing thousands,
Our future disgraced,
Pelves smashed and heads pounded.

Gord

2014-03-13 12:00 am

A clasp of green.
A feel alive again today.
My high is here to stay,
No Evergreen, Nor pine mine is.
EUCALYPTUS 
I found the fabled forest,
Large enough to raise my kin in.

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.

Gord

2014-03-10 12:00 am

Clowns out and claiming to command towns,
Cowards crown each other to a throne,
Known owers comb until they receive loans.
Mound surrounders manage again, to crow currant.
Furthermore the Kmart manager needs a quality check.
Its impossible when get a rifle if you're 19 or less.
No Columbine situation is a concern of mine,
The town cisterns for sale, and someones buying it.
So I started a militia, mostly dudes and guys.
For parting power of governmental figures.
I outsource mostly for costly screwups and lies.
My block is full of assholes, that I despise.

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Runaway

 Staying at the safe house,
 In Leeds.
 Secure from the ponces,
 And the pimps.

 Dressed smartly
 All in black.
 Determined that
 She's never going back.

 It took five whole days
 Before she could even
 Mouth her name.
 Was it through fear?
 Or was it through shame?

 Another seven passed
 Till she could speak,
 About the atrocities
 She had been through.

 And it took another long week
 To pass her by;
 Before she ever found,
 The strength to cry.

 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)