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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
2014-07-28 12:00 am
I am hop, To say I am hip, is past tense. So I pretense my statements. My preamble is mastered arrogance, So I defend my stature veritable, With questionable complacence.
The Sophist
2014-07-04 12:00 am
He speaks in subterfuge, He makes myth from animal bones, 'scribes visions of mothers viewed postnatal, He calls them "future you". He claims Caesar's final breath found you. He sees a subtle use, And has you build his thrones. He's too busy to view. He gives you your fill, You attack at his illusions, 'til your confusion is ill. I write folk songs for fools. Without steps I reach your homes, Crying disses of another's views most fatal I call them "false truths", I hand out bauble knives to the Fountain Youth, I burn the stable spruce, And make off with the stones, I take the dragons too, I live just to kill, I attack at your confusion, Pushing your illusions downhill.
The Sophist
2014-06-30 12:00 am
I advise, 20 some-odd years of life, To adhere, To live for four more years, And the reason to live for; Four more years. Do I love you? I refuse to answer, So the answer's no, I walk home heart-broke, Coat-less in the cold, A propos of the wet snow. Carving names in cave walls with a bone, I plan a life before me in stone, Four more years for us all, And if the fall doth happen, Four more years for us all, I rise, Rags to riches and homeless again, No fear, In the four year plan. I devise, To never be homeless again, My reason to live for; My own device. If you want to run, I will take you there, Somewhere beautiful, Eclipses everywhere, Full-on inscrutable, Just live for four more years.
The Sophist
2014-06-25 12:00 am
I swing about a bauble, I scream about all belief, And claim it to be fallible, I run to where the light doth scramble, To a place where all the truths are false, And dreams are able, and soar about my bauble, Radiant light of torch-lit dragon stables, I sing in fable, and swing about my bauble, All the dragons burnt alive by gas, Spilled off tables knocked and set alight. The old king has no ace to punish strike, Now that dragons are not able to end life. A workforce overthrows the king unable to know why, A mutiny by accident with baubles as our knives.
The Sophist
2014-05-26 12:00 am
If you could go back and change your life, You look back on your strife? Would I go back and change mine? I look back and my life is changed daily. For the better? Questionable. I look back at my life deranged gayly. For the most part; Insatiable. Satiated in my adolescence with hot knives hot paperclips unwinded on hot tables while a hot ocean waited for hot iron; Not able. Enough quotes from a world of war to be the next supreme gentleman, I changed my life enough to know that truth is irrevocable, I'd choke a bull for a chance at life less like a festival of Bedouins negligible.
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
A Week Away A week away A cottage in the Cotswolds Solitary single socks All in a line On parade Hands like hooks Feet that throb Barms and breezes In Blackpool Fortunes found and told Tramlines Scarring the seascape Soaring seagulls Hawk-like hands Flaying feet Seagulls that screech Mayhem in Mablethorpe Being Stumped in Boston As to which way to go Kiss me quick Squeeze me slow hats For edible orifices Wonka's Willies Trams travelling Towards the Tower And down the Golden Mile From Fleetwood North and South Piers Sandcastles Big and small Towards Town Postcard pictures Picture postcards Pencil drawings By computer The Mere at Marton Limousines And lycra-clad mirth-makers Mobster's metal machine Made from a Mini National Savings & Investments building Blocking the breeze And the light Standing in it's shadow Comfortable caravans Laughter from Leighton Jokes from Jamie Sparkling grape juice All the way from Grimsby Via the M18 Panoramic views From the highest motorway In Britain Deep dales High Pennine peaks In Yorkshire Rain and sunshine Traffic build-ups In Blackburn Blues in Burnley Families fighting Four-pint pitchers Of foaming ale Mussels and whelks Oysters and orange squash Cockles and crabs People driving Dangerously long miles Without falling faint Of fatigue Passion in the Pennines The castle moat Golden sands Tilting telegraph poles Going up And coming down Steep steps To silver sand Shorelines stretching As far as the eye Can see Whirling wind turbines Whitewashed windmills Scattered over the Northwest frontier Unfurled flags Flying furiously In a westerly wind Cod and curry sauce Pen'orth o'scraps And pots of mushy peas Wrapped in writing Mablethorpe Messenger Blackpool Gazette Cotswold Courier Yesterday's news Today's chip wrappers Tomorrow's waste. 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
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Windows I was still but a boy, When my people first started horsetrading, With the white man, Bill Gates; For livestock to be used on the cyber plains. Ninety Five was a poor breed, Made up of mixed bloodlines. Favoured by the white man. They know nothing of horse stock. Ninety Eight, though mixed with broken mustang; Were a bad breed, skittish, having to be hobbled often. ME were ponies that found much favour with the Pawnees, as pack-horses. They did not ride well. XP are better, their bloodlines come from the wild mustang herds, That frequent the vast plains. Apaches, the best horsemen, in creation; Use them to great advantage. The Vista are good animals but unpredictable, Causing their users many problems. But I have heard of a new breed,The Seven. It is said to be the result of mixing wily mountain mustang herds, With the speed of the white man's Arabian stallion stock. Creating a truly unique workhorse. I shall get one and find out if this is true. They say that with such a beast, I shall need all my rodeo skills. It is yet to be seen, Only time will truly tell. Dusti Rodes (2008)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
My Heart Goes Out My heart goes out to you, My brothers and sisters. The goalkeeper was beaten, The ball was on it's way in; Then the whole African nation Was raped and robbed of Victory By the hand of yet another South American. Suarez was sent off, And so he should That was inevitable. Annan lined up the penalty shot But was beaten by the bar The rest was history. My brothers and sisters Sound your vuvuzela long and hard As the death knell to hope. Dusti Rodes (2010)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
In the Wind The lonely nights. They were the worst part. The long hours spent building the bike. Burning the midnight oil until the cold light of dawn took over the illuminations. He sat, oil-stained mug in his grease-decked ham of a fist. Java's best, steaming, burning his throat raw with every lug. Was this his thirteenth or fourteenth today? He couldn't remember now. The massive doses of caffeine failing in their allotted task of feigning off fatigue; the accumulated grounds covering the mug bottom in a remnant of Mississippi mud, deep, from down in the Deltas. The first finger and thumb of his free hand were deftly putting the finishing touches to the joint he was rolling. It was a little art he'd picked up during his frequent stays at Her Majesty's Pleasure at various establishments around the country. His makings lay strewn over the old table that served as totem-factotum to his needs. Diner, workbench, even pillow on multiple occasions over recent months. He raised the cigarette to his lips, and with a single action that comes with years of practise, sealed it with his saliva. With it now ensconced in his mouth, he reached for the lighter, lit it, and took a deep toke. The sweet smell permeated his flaring nostrils, while he drew down the smoke deep into his lungs. As he exhaled, his heavy eyelids closed momentarily. The necessary effort required to open them again proving too much in his tired state, he allowed his mind to wander. Where had it all started? When was it now? Pour quoi? The combination of drugs and fatigue was fast inducing sleep, which only served to confuse the thought processes he was desperately trying to assimilate to no avail it seemed. The auto-jumble sale in Birmingham, that was it! That's where he'd first seen the bike, and realised its potential. An ex-WD combo. A 1948 six hundred cc, single cylindered side valve, from the Birmingham Small Arms company. With a camouflage green paint job. 'Distinctive', the vendor had called it. Hardly Milwaukee Iron, but beggars can't be choosers, can they? He'd only paid two hundred quid for the lot. And the seller had thrown in set of front suspension springer forks from a 1949, M20. The 500cc model that the dispatch riders normally used in the wartime. They were standard equipment on both the combination and solo set-ups. And they were chromed already! Save him a fortune that would. He'd altered the rake on the steering to an inch and three quarters over stock. That'll give him that low-rider effect he wanted. Just like Peter Fonda's in the film. Dusti Rodes (2007)
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