The Sophist
2014-06-18 12:00 am
Abeyant for the fall of man, Obeyant utilitarian, To be killed by robot tanks, Brought to life and killed again. To turn the world into a sun, Instead I'll long to own the moon, No muse but she, the only one, Her darkness tears my skin of gloom. Bottled pride, A drunk misuse, Beauty whore'd out to the masses, All could be in bliss without, Fragile multitudes, No doubt, My love is better glass-less.
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The Sophist
2014-05-06 12:00 am
Brown the new black, White the new Arab, A new wave of terror, The whole world is scared of. A new version of false flag, By creating false nations, Causing in artists a self-flagellation, All these rebellions are government run, Occupy is government run, The Arab Springs are government run, Benghazi was government run, Movies are made using government funds, Syrian Opposition on The Simpsons in 2001, A decade later formed in Syria, Why so much talk about guns, Alcohol, war, and marijuana? Using themes to denigrate people, In the very grounds that they run. Leaders were raised on Hare-Abian Nights, Now they kill Arabs for fun.
The Sophist
2014-04-25 12:00 am
Self circled in dirt, Drawn via stick, To conjure Lapland giants, Keeping them sic, Self free from hurt, To conjure vagrants and larrikins, Doing battle in mine eyes, Cain's mark upon my lamb skins, Letters in twine. Speaking names in droves of demons, Melodic tunes 'twixt thought and time, Emblems of the saints and spirits, 'Mephisto, please, appear and rise!' Ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis! A basilisk thus clouds mine eyes. 'Switch form you beast, but please don't die!' Smoke appears to change the guise, 'Return to me Franciscan Monk!' By magic I am blindly drunk, Mephisto doth appear to me, Apparently, he says, with ease. But apparently his own volition, Per accidens he blessed my wishes. 'I charge thee wait upon my life, Do what Sophist shall command, Be it moon to fall from night, Oceans all to swallow land, Orient wife with adjunct girls, Harvest the seas of opulent pearls. Surgat nobis dicatus The Sophist! Pray devoutly to the prince of hell, Confounding home with Elysium, The Sophist; To Whom Sophist dedicates himself.' Conjuror laureate beyond control, Mephisto a piece; Mystery whole.
Gord
2014-04-18 12:00 am
A hundred and ten, live. Sundries of men, dead. Sun dried in a tent, Limbs sundered and spent. A disunion to the dissection. A preparation for misunderstanding. A sun song sung, So sundrily that the people run, From open pasture to the sunken, Then a tsunami wave blocks the son. From the pasture the bell is wrung. Sons of god in hell, soaked asunder.
Kodyboi
2014-04-15 12:00 am
A spark of excitement, The riot van quietly rolls silently. A flash of light, A firefight ignites. Tonight is night, and it seemingly flies by. To wake up in a daze with beauty deified, In an illusion, or a pool of your own blood, useless. Truncheons let loose and looser yet the coppers too. Two men's fates hastened to a slate, One an enemy, and one of the state. One to die in his place, One to die as a lopper, name in disgrace.
The Sophist
2014-04-06 12:00 am
Now I'm alone, My plans fall through my hands, My plans falter my plans, Ditch-dogging philosophers, Diurnal bemoan, Unified spirit, Plods as it tries, Not to grovel and heave, Unable to die, Hand firmly on heart, Swear tell not a lie, Humankind curses nix, Shant invention decry, For those who know me, Easy going guy, Steed Spearhorse, A nobody, Unable to kill a man, With no body. Triangles illuminating, Intercepting, dissecting, Emanating, reflecting. Nervously wrecked, Fuck-up of the hoi polloi, A boy torn from life, Tearing back at the tears, Falling drunken sufficed, Your plans fall in your hands, Your plans are your plans, You fall alone, Your all alone, And I'm Alone, To Die Alone.
Gord
2014-04-03 12:00 am
I have Rob Ford exposure; I have Rob Ford composure; I write mockeries in prose, Which are meant to be poetically modest. But I end up stuffing them in mailboxes, Lighting them afire in a drunken stupor.
Gord
2014-03-27 12:00 am
I ate a bunch of bananas, Then these cops rolled up, I swallowed a fuckton of cannabis, Rode off on my bike and threw up. Nobody can catch me; I'm too smart. Puke nugs in a bags stroll off... Into the dark; Start running quick. Realize I've forgotten the bike: What a dilemma I've caused. Especially now I'm hungry as fuck, I have another bunch of bananas at home, but, Is the bike worth my time? Or is it quicker to run?
Gord
2014-03-14 12:00 am
Such teeth, Such face, Over the hills of red, Ugly white horses run.
Gord
2014-03-13 12:00 am
No choir of angels come, this victory feels meaningless. I leave her behind, I favour to run, they know not, nothing important, of mocking the birds, or humming at bees, of hitting your son, wife, or your daughter or anyone else, anyone if the father pleaseed.
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
Picking up the Pieces The wind ripped up my roses, Tore down the tomatoes, Mangled the mint; Crucified the coriander, And the carrots. Belted the beans, Both French and Runner. Obliterated the onions, Lashed the lettuces; Bruised the beetroots. The mighty sunflowers sagged, And the potato heads were Pulverised to pulp. As for the apple blossom, It wilted with the weather. The snap-dragons snapped, The foxgloves fought well; But only went a couple of rounds; Till they too, joined the lupins on the ground. The hollyhocks held their heads up, When even the willow waivered. And I am left, Picking up the pieces. Dusti Rodes (2006)
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
'A Handful of Seeds' With a handful of seeds, And just one well, We could make the difference. Whether it be maize, To fill mouths and bellies. Or thoughts, to educate, And stir minds. Irrigated by rivulets of running water Or nurtured by the spring of Inspiration. Change can be made. If we but try. Dusti Rodes (2010)
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
Twelve Bar Blues (An' gittin' drunker in every one of 'em!) I woke up this morning, Dum dum dum dum. I was feelin' real bad, Dum dum dum dum. 'Cos the way that's you treats me, Dum dum dum dum. Makes me feel real mad. Dum dum dum dum. You says that you loves me, Dum dum dum dum. You tells me you cares, Dum dum dum dum. but when I calls you, woman, Dum dum dum dum. You is never theres. Dum dum dum dum. I don't knows what it is that makes you, Dum dum dum dum. Thinks that you can treats me this way, Dum dum dum dum. But you gots it all wrong, woman, Dum dum dum dum. If you thinks I's gonna beg you to stay. Dum dum dum dum. I is jist a man, Dum dum dum dum. Mades outta flesh, blood and bone, Dum dum dum dum. But with all the misery you is causing me, woman, Dum dum dum dum. I'd be better offs alone. Dum dum dum dum. Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Blowin' the Blues Remembering the men I have fought, The women I have bought. The drinks I have drunk. Bad beer, gut-rotting whiskey. Southern style, Down in the deltas. Recalling the sights I have seen, The places I have been. Hot whorehouses in the south. Bar-room bordellos in the north. Me and my bitches. Those fancy foreign fillies, Monique and Monica. The Delta Lady and the Bar Belle. Who would harp on so well. Cajun queens, Both of them. Blow-job beauties. Who would accompany me, The many times, that I travelled, To the crossroads. Where I often heard, Johnson and the ol' Devil, Duelling on ghostly guitars. Manic music playing. Causing the howling baying. Emitting from the throats, Of the Hounds of Hell. Dusti Rodes (2007)
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)
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