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

2014-08-07 12:00 am

Don' be 'fraid just don' come back.
Don' plan attacks on modern days.
They don' like us 'cause we're free,
If "free" means happily enslaved.
Raped every day but with a smile,
Hostility like Abu Ghraib,
Graves stone but a worthless trial,
We might as well carve frowning faces,
Omit names and write words only in dirt.
There just write "fags".
"Junior pupil at a private school nailed by
 nerds."
Then just laugh at it.
Muslims aren't depraved,
Lennon even spoke at large of living in a bag.
It's freedom in a way,
Think about it,
Living without caste,
Judged only by your spoken word sans judgement
 'pon your face.
They sort of make a case,
I'll even take it off if you can find a private place,
It's just less of a disgrace.
To think my mid-pubescent beard could not  
 effect my fate.
Ignoring shit we hate,
We could probably find a pace that we can all 
 relate.
Chill music but still rocking in your face,
Fat bowl of potato dill salad I created.
Personally, I like war with lots of laughs;
It can be great.
Nothing personal, but I'll crack 'spic and
 nigger jokes all day.

Gord

2014-03-18 12:00 am

I dip a dapper super chicken tender;
It's Super Tender !, but whatever;
I'll forget tomorr'a with bongs and reefer;
I'll find myself on a floor 400 dollars poorer.
I'll master this lifestyle by vascect'ing myself;
Then I can curl into a ball and I won't come in my mouth.

The Sophist

2014-03-07 12:00 am

Death of Cupid strewn loose,
And the putrid excuse;
Stupidness youthed in the ruin of Use.
Abstracted views abstracting rapid abstract logic,
Abstracted the Truth;
Abstractly vapid and loose.
And so now I live recluse.
I used 'abstract' too much,
And killed Cupid via noose.
I have a pact,
I tattered and abused, 
I packed and hid, scattered in the spruce.
I hate all I come in contact with.
I hate to introduce.
I hate you all like my old friends.
You all act too recluse.

The Sophist

2014-03-07 12:00 am

A life pre-mortem;
Death of The Sophist that is;
Dying of boredom.
Deaf ears of the Quietude;
Hear tunes but abhor dem.
Good, there's more for 'em;
In a song they can hate through,
Than the femme de la femmes.
De la silence we dance to;
Scrotal Tongue's creme de la creme;
An online forum.

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

From ‘Blowin’ the Blues'

#When a woman gets the blues, she hangs her head and cries, when a man gets the blues, he boards a train and rides ... # (traditional blues song, author unknown)

Down in the Deep South, it can take three days to even SEE a train going through a station. Let alone have one stop there.

I guess his story started on that fateful night back in sixty-three. Someone had just killed Kennedy. John F, that is. He was shot while driving in a motor cavalcade down in Dallas. It sparked off a whole lot of conspiracy theories for decades to come. Even after the death of J.Edgar. Maybe he took the truth to the grave with him! Who knows?
I never really knew him then; I was but a little picca ninny on my momma’s knee, down on the plantation.  Barely finished suckling on her teaties. Papa said he was ‘nothing but a no-good nigre,’ and wouldn’t mount to a pile of beans. Just goes to show how wrong some people can be.

Sometimes Life can deal people a low card.
With him it had thrown away the rest of the pack and was only using a deck of deuces and threes with an occasional four. And it wasn't shuffling them, too well or too often.

He was what the white folk call 'coloured' not 'Black'. A mulatto and an albino one to boot. It was probably down to the unfortunate circumstances of his conception. His mother was 'Red' from Rhode Island. An 'easy lay' or so they say. But that was no good reason for her being gang-raped on the streets of Harlem now, was it?
His startling appearance often provoked a strange reaction in most people. Raised eyebrows, spinal shudder and shoulder shrug of revulsion, or a sharp intake of breath on initial sighting were common.

Standing a shade under seven feet, even with the stooping shoulders and strange way of holding his head slightly forward and lent to the left. Developed from years of attempting to listen with his good ear to what lesser sized folk were trying to tell him. His two hundred and sixty pound plus of bone and sinew barely covered by his leathery weather-wizened skin that had been exposed to the extremes of the elements for far too long. 
Long days of toiling at whatever work he could get. Bitterly cold nights spent in any shelter he could find. There wasn't any fat on that frame. Thirty-seven years of constant shortage of food had seen to that.
Cody Jarrel, cut a vision once seen, that few would forget easily. If ever....

Cody sat slowly drinking the dregs from the bottom of the empty bottles left by paying patrons of the bar.
He shuddered so violently, it wracked his frame to it's very core.
Sheltering on the back-stoop of the Shanty Shack, from the rain that had been incessant in its task of soaking him while he tried to seek some sleep to rest his weary body throughout last night.
It had succeeded, so he let out another shiver that clinked his spine.
Down in the doldrums, yet again, the future was looking real bad for him. And little did he realise it then, but it was going to get even worse before it could get better. Much worse.


Dusti Rodes (2007)