Gord
2025-01-30 03:49 am
Where does the red end? Bench press, breath test, Desk chair, ceiling fan: You hope to get to live again. Jump rope, feeling breasts, Best friends, sleeping bags. Then into the night, like assent... That's a life you never lived. Town by town, you lay a brick, Build a house, inhale a bit. Where, from does cedar sprout? Far away from shit like this. How are you about playing music? Cedar necks, hands tight around, Beating skin, women. Beans again, Upon a page then: demons, hell. What is a stranger, to a friend? Follower, liar, charlatan, I would never knew, you were never there.
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Gord
2024-09-13 10:09 am
What changes with age? Cambridge, Yale, Navy. But today it rained, So blue wins the day. Head nod, hand wave. Stop, playing games, take aim, Place weights upon my grave, Nothing will change my fate. Head nod, hand wave. What changes with age? Space, royals and babies, Softness of brains, What is mundane? The third day on the front page, Shame, shame, shame, Change, change, change. Wait, wait wait, But away they sailed, So blue wins the day. Head nod, hand wave.
Gord
2022-11-25 08:44 pm
As the fists hits the pavement, he changes 'Ignorance' he cries as he flails. He denies what he feels and streams cable, Internet and escapes what is real. He is afraid of it, greatness, fame, So he spends a lifetime playing. C minors and B major, sustain, Weeks later he liberates them, Showing what a monster can be.
Gord
2022-11-24 12:02 am
She cried too late, she surmises, Where the water hits the sky she relates, Relating further as the distance gains, Relationships were never her game. Decisions in haste are still decisions made, Whether the bars bend makes no difference, You still lived in a cage. She is indivisible from a man, She decides in a rage, This divides her, divided in half, her life changes. Her children are the product of mistakes. She cried too late, she surmises. Famine, she decides. Pestilence, plague, flames, Venom from the viper's fang, Which she places upon the lambs that wail. Take me away, she whispers to nobody there. Take me away, she formally dresses, playing, Addressing her former self, she was taken away, Far from the pain that she feels everyday
R B Lane
2021-02-06 08:28 pm
I hear your voice upon the wind. It calls me, to come to you I follow the sound unable to resist like a Siren call to sailors at sea. Your eyes meet mine. The eyes of a lioness who wishes to devour me You pounce upon me and bring me to the ground onto your bed of lilac and lavender I am helpless in your jaws about my neck. Your fangs pierce deep into my flesh. Your jaws crush my last resistance. Your golden flaxlike mane falls upon me like waves of soft sea mist In my mouth and in my eyes, I look through the golden net which binds me Your lips find mine. Your tongue darts into my mouth and upon my face with the kisses of my submission. Your kisses go down my chest with your golden hair softly following behind. Your kisses rise back to my face with your hair all about me forming the net of my capture. Two breasts land upon my body like twin fawns playing in a meadow. They move and glide up and down my body. I reach to grab them, so smooth and soft You are upon me now and our bodies move like the sway of the trees in the wind. I am in you. You have devoured me. There is no more me, only you my Calypso.
crybaby
2020-08-20 11:24 am
8 years old playing with dolls marriage between thots never touched the boys then at school cool swimming pools putting on your clothes causes me to drool in 7th grade joined the parade thats the time i came out of the shade i regret not sleeping at that one night i said what we cant forget you pretend not knowing my face you never call me by my name i just need to know what’s under the snow what’s the name of the show that you play i wish i were straight or you were be gay if only you would lay down with me babe look me in the eyes like i look in yours kiss me on my mouth and i would be yours
Justan Mitchell
2016-05-05 12:00 am
Is There One? One shall arise from the midst of these, yes these, these little ones who have watched their parents hung, strung as ornaments on trees, yes these even, in 2016. Then their are those without future hopes due to broken homes, these that have been led my mainstreams, instead of being led to mend broken bones, these that say "keep you voice in tone". But I say fear no the word alone. For when through the spiritual you roam, the heart, mind, body and soul will fill gaping holes, allowing pens to flow freely into places that pencils can't go. But then there are these who pose, posing in a still stance engulfed with frowns of hatred because they just don't understand and so their actions scream, "HEAL THIS BROKEN LAND!!!" And this has become their native tongue, crying out for the guidance of the ONE! Please is there one? Look into the eyes of those that have died before the age of five, those that wear hearts of black and blue art, with mental repetitious records rapidly playing the age old song why,why,why? Why do we experience sacrifice before we experience life? Like Christ? Why such a cost for these before they learn t be at ease? Maybe, maybe the world is impregnated by crazy and is on the verge of raising yet another baby? Maybe, maybe the man in the mirror reflects hatred because he hates himself? Maybe, maybe he can't accept kindness because he's been denied the knowledge of his own true weath, the knowledge his own true self. And then there are these who are lost without cares dragging along the heaviest wear and tear, with the deadliest raging flare, but tarry not along the road of destruction, because destruction is in the eye of the beholder, but the beholder beholding many self inflicted wounds and self inflicted wounds can easily spell doom! And then there are these who are serving high stations that need fine replacements! These that have been exposed by their blood drenched tongue, that on self unknowingly and knowingly told. Yes we know these. But sometimes and even one times these can be we. And now I see many spirits lost in the overwhelming shadows of IT'S beaming light, spirits claiming underdeveloped knowing as the source of their plight, and so it hurts me to SEE, Yet even still one shall arise from the midst of these yes these, these little ones who have watched the parents hung strung as ornaments on trees, One such as me. Is there one? Dangerous Soul Life Justan "Potential" Mitchell
The Sophist
2016-02-22 12:00 am
The Sophist speaks of years forlorn. Breathing in the ears of corn. "What mercy does a savage make? What pity do the foolish take? They take one step, and nothing more." The Sophist speaks of emeralds. So green and dope for sure. So dope! So dope, Oh, And Green! For sure... Found but lost before, Lost for all eternity, Now He's found for sure. The Sophist still confused by waves, Playing seashells on the shore. Scarcely eats, Softly prays, The Sophist sings in uniform.
The Sophist
2015-10-23 12:00 am
A number persists through time Indefinitely Water boils Bones grind Triangle galaxy Amen Blacks die Highest degree Long playing records Elohim chimes The year we killed Jesus Then peaced His age Crucified Collection of East deities Battling basketball teams Meaning of life Hoping that I Get an invite to Club 33
The Sophist
2015-09-21 12:00 am
Three loveless dynasties divine. Providence in sheep inside. Bleeding, 'Treating to be blinded. The Feigning Suicidals. Three peasants covering their eyes, Not displaying thoughts inside. Blinded, 'Treating to be bleeding. A hopeless heart reciting. Bed made and three pillows aligned. Love lost 'tween a bout and twine. Meaning, Ends of never starting, Twelve sorrows between two hearts. Twelve hearts; Their grief imparting. Twelve stars align to follow charts. Cosmic games of skeet in the dark. Teeming, Conducted by the stars; An opera of three parts. The loveless damned to be confined, Only singing chorus lines. Finding love within their sources. Slamming on their desks with sore fists. Bed tossed and our feelings opined. Love found 'tween a tackle and twine. Value, Still, But still restarts, Twelve griefs of an ardent heart. Earnestly, Your soul departing.
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.
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.
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
WOLFGANG Harley riding, Snuff taking, Mah Jong playing. German Hell's Angel. Holding court daily, From his pool-side seat. The family man, Playing with his boy. Joking with his wife. Making instant friends, Of the strangers that he meets. Sharing a day to themselves, Doing nothing in particular, But everything in general. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
THEY'RE PLAYIN' WITH THE CLOCKS They are playing with the clocks, Stealing our time. Precious moments, passing us by. What was it they said? Spring forward, Fall back. They're playing with the clocks again. Messing with our minutes. And our minds. The British Summer has gone. It's certainly a mean time, In Greenwich. Still light in the morning, for now. But dark long before dusk. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Memories of Menorca The solitary star The lone gull Lack of light dark and deep Guarded by the lion-dog In two-tone green and black and white Part Chihuahua, part Pekinese. Sunrise over Citudella Purple and pink Blues and browns Age old ruins Built of rocks That are tumbling down. Out of the stillness Came a rustle The wind whispered "Morning" Gull winging, effortlessly Sparrows busying in their daily task Of feeding their families. No different from other mere mortals Who stand and observe Through peephole portals On life below and above. Pylons, all in a line, Taking power to the people. John Lennon would be proud. Illuminated cars, kerb crawling At dawn's half light; Wondering whether to switch off As it is no longer night. To hell with sunrise Watching the clouds come up, Shrouding the stars With their whiteness From the deep dark blue Of Menorcan night. An old boy, reminds me of myself, Lone party goer, maybe? One hell of a walk From Cala Forcat After our session at Night Fever. Sun rises over Citudella And Cala Blanes. Rabbits running, Ants busy, busy; Relaxing perhaps, For a jam sandwich Carelessly cast away. Before the heat forces Them to siesta, On a Menorcan morning At the end of June. A lone songbird, Chortles its wakeup tune; My bag, bathed in Menorcan sunlight Casting shadows of strangest hues The old currant bun Promising a day of brightness. Painted by light, In Nature's brightest colours, The single rock on the lawn Looking like a monolith From eons past. A donkey, braying, Radio, playing People, singing, And speaking in Spanish. Then, Rick Astley, In English. Never going to give you up. Menorcan memories. Dusti Rodes (2002)
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
2014-03-05 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."
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