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."

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

TOO MANY TEARS

 Too many tears in that house
 Too much shouting,
 Followed by silence.

 Too many tears in that house
 What secrets hide behind that white door?
 Secrets that aren't so private anymore.

 Too many tears in that house
 The last month's ironing,
 Piled high behind doors.
 Remnants of meals, partially uneaten,
 Strewn across the floors.

 Too many tears in that house
 Rags at the windows.
 Washing left on the line,
 For weeks on end.
 Hedge and garden, overgrown.

 Too many tears in that house
 Black refuse bags, often three or four,
 Piled high outside that door.
 Rotting, ripped open by cats.
 Contents acting as a beacon 
 For rats.

 Too many tears in that house.

 Dusti Rodes (2009)

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

MASTERCLASS - A Poet elaborates

 This could be called a Performance poem.
 It contains examples of the art of poetry.
 It has degrees of Irony
 And I think it shows
 This artiste's truly biting wit.
 Others just say despairingly
 I'm really full of S**t!
 (That's the limerick!)

 There are poems
 Within this poem
 In which I take no recourse
 To neither rhyme, nor do I measure meter.
 And in the abysses and crevasses
 Caused by the use of blank verse
 You'll find I'll often teeter.

 I'll now demonstrate my art
 With the able assistance
 Of just twenty-four playing cards.
 And when I'm finished
 I'd like a start
 Of at least a hundred and fifty yards!
 (I'm an old man)

 *Display cards and say-(counting off)*

 A poetry reading.

 A poet reads,
 A short poem
 He has written.

 Eight lines only,
 Two dozen words.

 Three word poem.

 Ironic and Sardonic.

 (Thank you. and Goodnight!)

Dusti Rodes (2002)