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?

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-12 12:00 am

NOT ALL ANGELS NECESSARILY 
WEAR THEIR WINGS AT ALL TIMES

Silly things.

What does your lipstick taste like?
How does it feel to kiss those luscious lips?

What would it mean to hold you in my arms,
And have yours in mine?

How will it feel to have our bodies entwined?

You have released pent-up passion,
That I had almost forgotten.

You have placed me on a pedestal so high,
The fall seems so far down.

I hope that my angel wings still work,
As I haven't had to use them
For such a long time.

Gord

2014-03-07 12:00 am

Teach me to breathe again,
Teach me to fish among the bears;
Until boars bearing teeth sheath their wares,
and thus keep secret to themselves, cares;

I care naught, to teach me, teach me not;
Those that let me rot gave me teeth;
and then taught me of freedom through proxy;
Thus keep secrets to yourself, forget them not;

In age I will not be forgotten,
A new age will dawn upon them,
A swirl of value, morality is drawn in;
Only remembered are those who ascend to godhead;

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

Feeding Fish

 Standing somewhere,
 Feeding fish.
 Fairground freaks,
 Probably won't last
 Two weeks.
 A memory span
 Of less than seven seconds
 Or so they reckon.

 Why do they call them goldfish?
 When one is orange,
 And the other is brown;
 Swimming up and down,
 Around and around;
 As though their lives
 Depended on it,
 As it does.

 What have we got in common?
 I ask myself.

 Standing somewhere,
 Feeding fish.
 Fairground freaks,
 Probably won't last
 Two weeks.
 A memory span
 Of less than seven seconds
 Or so they reckon.

 Why do they call them goldfish?
 When one is orange,
 The other is brown;
 Swimming up and down,
 Around and around;
 As though their lives
 Depended on it,
 As it does.

 Dusti Rodes (2011)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining
(From 'Working the Wilderness')

The authorities decision last Fall, to only empty the organic waste bins every two weeks from then on, worked in the Winter when nothing was growing and the temperature was zero or below most of the time.
But the warmer weather has arrived, and now the bins contents such as mown grass cuttings, rotting weeds, chicken carcasses, egg shells, fish heads, tails 'n' scales , animal's entrails and the like, stinks to high heaven.
The bin is teeming with ants and their eggs, absolutely mingin' with maggots, and the air is filled with flies most of the time.
But they say there's a silver lining in every cloud, if only you bother to look for it, don't they?
The bait for my fishing don't cost me anything no more.
In fact I'm even making profit by selling some of the ant eggs, casters and maggots to my neighbours for THEIR fishing needs!


Dusti Rodes (2007)

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

From 'Fixin' Fences & Paintin Pickets


It’s all very well having a south-facing postage stamp sized front yard. Picturesquely encompassed by a white picket fence. But that makes the prairie outback a north facing wilderness that requires a multitude of feather-board panels six feet high by eight feet wide to prevent range wars with my neighbours. And after nigh on nine years now, they need painting.
There's only one thing really wrong with this place in my opinion. The layout of the land.
It's They say that there is something therapeutic about hand-painting fence panelling with a four inch brush. Long stroke up, long stroke down. Never side to side. Time spent alone with your thoughts. Having the opportunity to be able to meditate and commune with Nature. Well, after nearly three days of trying I for one haven't found what it is yet!
Having spent most of the day sorting out the two compost bins, causing friends and family to hastily stand upwind of me whilst in conversation, I finally started my self-appointed task late Saturday afternoon. At the time the warmth of the Spring sun made the job a pleasant one, and even aided the drying process!
But Sunday ... well, that was a whole different ball game!
As I have said, the back area is North-facing. At this time of the year the sun doesn't get to most of it till much later in the day. so while to all intent and purposes Sunday's weather was beautiful, I spent most of my time shivering in the shade. And as for yesterday, Monday to you mere mortals, it was that cold all day that the brass monkey that had kindly offered to give me a hand had to have two emergency welding repair jobs!
Come about three o'clock when I finally finished painting the interior of the fencing, all I was fit for was getting to a HOT shower in order to stave off hypothermia which I am sure had started to set in previously! When I was telling a friend about how bitter the weather here had become, she aptly described me as a 'human icicle'.
All I've got to do now is start on doing the outside of the fence!
Oh, Happy days!

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)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

It's rainin' the blues

it's raining the blues, momma, 
it sure is raining the blues.
it's raining the blues heavy now, momma.
yes, it's raining them there blues.
it's raining down the blues heavy momma, 
and your boy ain't done got no shoes.

when I woke up this morning, 
I had that ol' familiar poundin' in my head.
I got up this morning with my brain
jist repeatin' everything I ever said.
the pain was so bad, momma, 
I just got back into my bed.

recently I been badly battered, 
done had many of my dreams
well and truly shattered.
was told tales of terrible things, 
as though it really mattered.
had my mind constantly confused, 
only to be left bruised and tattered.

it's rainin' the blues, momma.
it's pourin' down the blues.
I’m lookin' up to the darkenin' sky, momma,
and all I can see are them different hues.


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)