Gord
2015-03-03 12:00 am
Voice 6: Who plays Beethoven upon my door? Truly he be hooven and poor morally, For a husband just died in my arms. Knock not or at least form formally, For normally impatience is paid poor. Voice 7 (whispers): Quickly. Voice 6 answers the door abruptly. Voice 6: You were not to arrive until morning! There we could consummate cordially, Declaring our love in the afternoon; Could it be you interrupt my mourning, Because you could not go without me, And thus arrived in story too soon. Voice 7: I may have come too soon, But not over you, my love, Never have I had such pain. I request to have it again, For I feel such remorse, No man should be slain, Lest by hand of a horse. Voice 6: Quiet, Guards hear the whining of dogs, Horses not led by hand but by emotion? Worker of ideals, concepts and notions, Walking upon my silken floor in clogs; If disgust in yourself is your only sin, Can disgrace be upon an innocent facade?
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Gord
2014-11-18 12:00 am
Tax time, time to claim rats as dependents. Max punishment for a victimless defendant, New York takes the L. It lusts for the loss. Cost not important, Nor impotence of cock. So don't whistle when I walk the street dawg.
The Sophist
2014-08-21 12:00 am
A Letter For A Dumb Cunt; That Slut. Honk your horn and yell "fuck, Fuck, Shit, move on to the sidewalk" on Bayview Avenue. Suck my dick; Long deck is muscle power. Like that face covered muff. So Fuck you; Fuck your poon smeg also. Piss off back to hell; Take your jizz twat. Slut shoo. Make prey upon some four-some. Jism over your butt plug. Arse full like some wank show, You race to get face fucked, I glide as my bands flow, Fuck your dumb cunt shit, Bozo.
The Sophist
2014-08-20 12:00 am
Everyone is so depressed, Though no one likes a downer, As such casts frowns upon the Frowner, And thus becoming frowns themselves, Lusting after laughter, Mad and frown obsessed, Coat the world in spite of love or hate, Diethyl Ether, If I entertain the hatred one more hour, I may get a bullet in my chest. If I entertain my love for higher power, I may still get a bullet in my chest. Though no one likes a downer, I'll admit that I'm depressed, I wish I could be smart and know it all, But I'll confess; I'm not, and I don't. Thus I walk unto another test, Often times my thoughts are downers, This is why I acquiesce.
The Sophist
2014-08-15 12:00 am
We walk, sleep, and love at same time. Never touching same land, Maybe we have seen same clouds or birds. It's super deep; seabed at high tide. Such height to withstand; Able to perceive high twos as thirds. Gifts like Hebe; she gives a young mind. Youth-centered slow man, Thus in dreams; youth in ancient worlds. I derive order from a simply beautiful life. Beautifully skilled stoneman, Carving life for himself in beautiful strides, My woman is a strong plan sublimed, Though I'm sure a leap could suffice, With her I see that without her I'm blind.
Gord
2014-07-16 12:00 am
A relationship couldn't hurt you. They call her whirlpool. What? Cannot water purl, lest swirl? Cannot the girl circle? Without countess' calling Birle?¹ A charity now, discounts jealousy. Apparently they want your man... Maybe the man they seek is a boy. Attracted to kiss curls and cute girls. Ensnared in world's trap of spit curls, The world is full of geothermal cores. Moreover she's 'so hot', She only explores herself. I walked right into the flower shop. Honestly I'm not looking for vagina, I'm just looking to be the primus.² Footnotes: 1. Swirling Water; Masculine Name; 2. The 'one'; The first.
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.
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
2014-03-04 12:00 am
In fields of Barley If I tried to tell you truthfully You probably wouldn't understand Just how good it feels right now To be trespassing in the fields Of the Farmer's fertile land. Watchin' the Hawk huntin' Field mice, voles and the odd rabbit or two, Who in turn are out in the morning sun. Foraging for food to keep their families fed. Feeding on the filling green ears of barley Growing gracefully in a swaying breeze. Maybe she'll end up catching A dozing dormouse Taking forty well-earned winks From the furore and frantic frenzy Of activity that fills the field. Walkin' with my four-legged friend, Teachin' him of fetch and catch. While all the time, the real lesson is Learnin' to like the lead. Dusti Rodes (2013)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
When you go down to the theatre today (To the tune of Teddy Bears Picnic) When you go down to the theatre today, You'd better go in disguise. When you go down to the theatre today, You're sure to get a surprise. 'Cos every fear that ever there was, Is gathered there because, Today is the day that Dusti Has his heart operation. Big ones, little ones, scary ones. Oh what fun there'll be. Spiders, rats and ghoulies Thing that are not really there, You'll be sure to see. Walls walking, bed bottles talking, Through cavern-like mouths. When you're back on the ward tonight, They'd better not turn on the light. When you're back on the ward tonight, You're likely to have a fright. 'Cos every fear that ever there was, Are gathered here tonight. 'Cos today's the day that Dusti Had his heart operation. Dusti Rodes (2008)
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
Jazz Duellin' "Some people spend their whole lives, and not hear the sounds stored insides 'em. Forgits the notes, jist plays the music. We's alls gots 'em. Black notes, white notes, notes that's been done stretched, even bent ones. Theys orl ins there. It's hows youse use 'em, that's the trick! Whethers you beats 'em, till they is blue; or you coaxes them out gently likes fine wine from a bottle, it's up to youse. Some folks puts 'em in orders that mosts don't even finks of! And that's olrights too. It's up to youse. Jist gotta finds your own ways o' makin' 'em sounds... It's orls I kin tells yer..." He hadn't played the piano in a long time. Disillusioned, downed by the drugs, That ran riot in the community and company that he kept. He had drifted away. Somewhere. Anywhere. But there. Harlem could frighten even the strongest of souls. And he'd never claimed to be that. They called him Cajun. A remnant of time spent in New Orleans. The honky-tonks, the seedy bars and the backroom bordellos, That he had often frequented while down there, In what seemed now like a hundred life-times ago. But he was back in the old neighbourhood. He'd come for the funeral. One of only a few true people, He could call friend. Word spread like wildfire, as it does in these times, That he was back in town. At the graveside some of the old crew ambled over to him. Asking the usual stuff. How's he doing and the like. Told him they were holding the wake at Creole's Place that night. And would be sure pleased to see him there; The brother being a friend and all. When he walked into the Place that night, He was greeted by a sight he had almost forgotten. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, Rotgut rye whiskey and weed joints. The lights, they were turned down real low. But people saw him standing there, And still took the time to say hello. He hadn't even been nowhere near a piano, In a long while. They had seen to that. Six years in the slammer cramps a man's style. Lithe fingers, gone fat. The used-to-be so supple sinews now taunt. He flexed 'em. They fought back. The spotlight on the stage area, Reminded him of those damned searchlights, That had sent their searing shafts of light skyward. Cutting into the darkness outside his cell, Night after night. Robbing him of the only escape available, To the inmates of the hell-hole. Where he had been incarcerated .... Sleep. Creole, the 'Fatman', on bass fiddle, 'Bleedin' Lips' Murphy, blowing blues horn. 'Skins'Duval, up there on drums. The Fatman called out, coaxing for him to come up on the stage. Most folk never really hear the sounds inside them. But some can't help but create, The music they were born to make. Cajun was one of those. He hears the roar rising from the void within. Like a volcano. Molten music, Stirring deep in the depths Of his frame. That must come to the surface, Like lava, straining to escape the confines. A piano is made of wood 'n' wires. Hammers big and small. Ivory keys that need gentle, Or sometimes even firm coaxing; To give their best or better. To some, it's just a piano, A boxful of sounds. A mechanism for making music. For others, like Cajun, It's an extension of the soul. The drums, they spoke something. Grumbled, mumbled low. Real low. The fiddle responded with a taunt strain. The horn blew for all it's worth. The note long and very low down. Somewhere deep, deep in the depths. They were having a conversation, Wanting Cajun to join in. To leave the safety of the shoreline, And strike out for the deep water. Then Creole started beating the box, With his waxed bow. Stacking the blues. Coaxing, urging, Cajun to take up the thread. Waiting for him to do things on the keys, That showed he was wading in the water with them. And Cajun answered them all. With authority. The dialogue became a monologue. The piano was doing the talking now. All everybody could do was but listen. In awe. The riffs and licks spoke with an urgency. They told of places, That none of the others had ever been to. Describing pain, that few else had ever felt. Diving to depths of despair, Unplumbed by mere mortals. But Cajun had been there. Seen the sights. And he was telling everyone. That which he had experienced. Reliving the roller coaster ride, That his life had been so far. And he took all those, Gathered there, that night. On the journey. Dusti Rodes (2007)
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