The Sophist

2014-04-21 12:00 am

Sure there may be more,
Than a world of slurpies and porn,
But I am the First Man;
I judge the Second and tell him there's not.
If he teaches greater joy to the Third;
I'll tell him he forgot,
True joys of a purer world.
Of slurpies and porn;
Joys of life unfurled,
To weaker minds a portal,
To a world less ill-defined,
A portal for Immortals;
Two joys not hard to find.

The Sophist

2014-04-17 12:00 am

Making sure my cock's in my peripheral,
Making sure my stream fails not to stray,
Making sure my dick is not ethereal,
I pray to God my Momma raised no gay.

The Sophist

2014-04-16 12:00 am

Ohm, I wish to be Austere,
For if I knew I was her end,
I truly wouldn't care.

Ohm, I wish to be the air,
To float where she has fun,
For truly there is none,
If in life she isn't there,

Ohm, I wish to be the Pleiades,
Forever sailing ones,
Sailing to my maiden's needs.

Ohm, I with to be Pellucid,
An interest in her sight,
To cloud her camera obscura.

Ohm, I wish to be Polaris,
In dark her warmest light,
Beaming through her apertures.

The Sophist

2014-04-11 12:00 am

You stole my fucking stones,
And now I want them back,
I'm exhausted for no reason,
And I doubt,
I doubt your mind's on track.

Where are all your pyramids?
I've never seen a one,
I'm angry all damned season,
And I know,
I know you're still undone.

I'm damn tired for too damn long.
Millennia since pyramids,
Meager wage preventing treason,
And I believe,
I believe conspiracies in myriads.

To stand back and reflect,
Drowsy,
Erect,
Accomplished,
And now we are the Iliads.
Worthless,
Lacking respect,
All shit.

New hands smacking old elect,
Lousy,
Inept,
Unaccomplished,
Yet the common ride on chariots,
Horseless,
Acting intact,
Shit polished.

The Sophist

2014-04-10 12:00 am

It's not easy being green.
It's not easy helping people make their own disease.
My name is Unimportant; 
I carry scopolamine flowers,
And I pay nothing for it.
My name?
I'm Confused;
I carry scopolamine flowers giving greetings profound.
Playing God of the hour,
Fleeting bodies abound.
Falter and fumble and fall to the ground;
Witnessing light of a paradise found.
Leading the blind,
With my feeble eyes,
Misplaced moral outrage,
Attempts to rewind.
To see druidic days,
Where there's bodies unfounded.
Peat bogs set ablaze,
Simple murders unsounded,
Lacking cause,
Mental haze killing thousands,
Our future disgraced,
Pelves smashed and heads pounded.

Gord

2014-03-27 12:00 am

Sandwiches,
I lack the dishes to cook, so,
Bun, Mustard, Mayo,
Ham, Cheese, Bun, on a plate.
Here what I'm saying?

Gord

2014-03-18 12:00 am

I pause for an applause, but silence fills the room's divide;
They don't like my lines? Well I'm the new pasty wino,
I came here to expound how I... then I left the game to die;
Like the game did to me with crack cocaine,
Which it turns out I like;
You'll niggas don't even smoke crack, viper provides.

Gord

2014-03-13 12:00 am

A clasp of green.
A feel alive again today.
My high is here to stay,
No Evergreen, Nor pine mine is.
EUCALYPTUS 
I found the fabled forest,
Large enough to raise my kin in.

The Sophist

2014-03-12 12:00 am

Seek introspection elsewhere.
I'm here to burn my hands on incense smoke,
Telling God stories of my trysts,
Of all the times he missed.
To a world I doubt is there
I'm yelling my plans to an absent bloke,
telling God stories of my dick,
Of all the dames I dream it chokes.
Vocals crack on air,
The priest is watching alone.
I stare the beast in his eyes,
and keep yelling despite.
I draw a circle, a square,
Triangle, circle, and begin to invoke,
Two homunculi inside,
The smallest circle defined.
Behold, contrast and compare,
Presenting the Philosophers Stoned,
Their knowledge is blinded,
And wisdom unwound.
Priest still watching me stare,
I rub ash on my forehead and go,
To the front of the alter,
No foot dare to falter,
I scream and still nobody's there.

<img src="https://www.aspoet.com/src/img/avatars/philosopherstone.gif" height=300 width=300></img>

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-12 12:00 am

Bluesman.

He was jist sat there.
Strummin' away.
Softly.

Striking vacant chords.
Filled full
Of notes.
In various hues
Of the Blues.

The Sophist

2014-03-10 12:00 am

My God that dumb-wrecked bitch;
The meaning of a hoe;
She tries perforce for her forget;
Her thrice exclaiming "no".

Her lips are chapped and rapid;
Face smooth and mar'ble;
Her mind a vapid wasteland;
Of her words unknow'ble.

Her bod' a sun-soaked beach;
By fear of under toe;
She tries perforce for my forget;
But hers I can not, no.

And thus some minutes pass,
And thus some minutes pass thereafter,
Pissing in my pants,
Dying forth in crippling laughter.

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.

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;

The Sophist

2014-03-07 12:00 am

Hoeryong Concentration Camp,
Saul-ri, North Hamgyong, North Korea.
Google Maps can see it;
The place where he was raised.

Hooks through shoulders dance;
Three generations relieve it;
Crimes against human spirit;
Humanity crazed,
Choose to not believe it.

See Kitty Genovese,
In a nation void of peace,
Cries out for help.

Markets open and diseased;
Meth soaked in teas.
Get high;
Accept defeat.

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

In a Japanese Vein

 Koi

 Fisherman,
 Solitary, seated,
 Beside the endless water.
 Wherein the single specimen
 Silently swims.
 Casting a line that leaves
 No trace on the still surface.


 Bonsai

 In Japan, it is Bonsai,
 In England, it is August.
 It will soon be the Fall.
 In both.

Dusti Rodes (2011)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Spoilt for choice - Sainsbury’s Saga

I think I'll have fish today.

Fillet of fish.
Served in a dish.

Probably be nice
With a portion of peas;
Don't want that one, though,
Too many E's.

Beluga caviar,
Cor, isn't that taking
Housewife’s choice
A smidgen too far?

Tuna in tomato sauce
Or shall I have
Sunflower Oil?
Here's one in brine
That'll do just fine.

Now, do I want it,
In chunks?
Shall I have it in steak?
Maybe I should just settle
For a nice piece of Hake.

Have it fresh, shall I?
I could have a packet,
But then again,
Maybe a pie.
But then will it be,
John West, Findus or Ross,
Or just plain Bird's-Eye?

There are mussels and cockles
Scallops and whelks
Sardines, mackerels
Oysters and squid.
Pilchards, salmon,
Haddock and plaice,
Cod, coley, sole and skate;
There's even a fish called slid.

Look at the lobster,
The prawns and the shrimps,
Kippers, herrings
Dover sole, lemon sole
Brown and rainbow trouts
Shark steaks, swordfish
With very long snouts.
Jamaican snappers,
Whitebait and sprats.
Not much on them,
Even for cats!

Then on its own
Or sometime in sticks;
Even professionally dressed;
Comes the regal crab.
Making the dour monkfish
Sound positively drab!

Thinking of medieval monasteries,
Is Friar,
Latin, for Fish-cook?
And was Friday named for fish?
Has it always been spelt
With an I,
Or should it be Fryday,
Spelt with a Y?

Sod it,
I'll just have pasta!


Dusti Rodes (2003)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Reflections on the demise of  a Neighbour

Everywhere here
Is full up with junk
That isn't really so.
The building of a couple's lifetime.
These possessions that are left
Are all there is to show.

The winged ducks
Pots and pans
Brooms and mops
The crystal decanter with its glasses
Projector and screen
Slides taken of foreign mountain passes
Planes and trains
Books on stone polishing, birds, gardening and roses
Videos and stills of Formula One heroes
Transfixed in winning poses
Sewing machine, curtains
Cups and saucers
Things that should have been handed on
To beloved sons and daughters
That never materialised.

The log box, embellished in brass
Figures of snails and owls
Made in Caithness Glass
Squirrels, dogs and hedgehogs
Porcelain men and women
Music boxes that play tunes
While in the cutlery drawers
Fish knives, glass rolling pin
Even silver apostle spoons
The collection of records, cd's and tapes
Recorded by artistes, many long gone
A multitude of stereos and tape decks
To choose to play them on.

Clocks and timers
Wallets and watches
TV and twin tub
Clothes airer and spin dryer
Pencils, pens and paper (by the ream)
Plastic bags in all sizes
Enough for several lifetimes
Drills and saws
Fishing tackle
Fly, sea and coarse
Full blown sou'wester sailing suit
And around in the garage
Long wader boots
An iron gate
Wrought with his own hand
All serve to measure
The mark of the man.

Dusti Rodes (2004)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Postcard from Spain

The deep blue Med,
Bleeding red,
With green seaweed.

Ten thousand immigrant flies,
Travelling in on the wings
Of the Sirocco;
From north Morocco.

The power of the Siesta Sun,
Making the sand in my shoe hot.

Luscious lips, not bruised
Neither battered nor burnt,
Grappling with grapefruits.

Paradise Beach,
Paraded with parasol palms;
Waves breaking
On a wind-kissed shore.

I may be bathing later,
I am still not sure.

A lone bathing beauty,
From the Lone Star state,
Ear to the phone.
Southern Belle;
Listening to Western Bell.

Had to go and see
My mountain,
Standing stark
In darkest Dakota.

Aqui,Casas de Lujo.
Here, Luxury Houses.
Cornish Cream,
Mandarin Palace.

Urban graffiti
In an idyllic setting.
Perfect paradox.
Jet plane trucking
Leaving tyre tracks
In the bright blue sky.

Sun-kissed shingle.
Sitting on a man-made rock,
The sea has shaped
To blend in with the shoreline.
Concrete clusters;
Indistinguishable,
From indigenous icons

Seaweed green, but yesterday,
Bleached red,
By the unforgiving sun today.
Granite granules,
Marble monolinths.
Sculptured saline symbols.

Yellow bouys bobbing,
Effortlessly.
Looking like a line of sweet corn,
Positioned precariously
On a willow patterned plate.

To my right,
A multitude of people,
To my left,
A hundred more.
But I sit here,
Surrounded by the solitude of silence.

Alone, with only my thoughts,
For company.
'Cept for the gentle breeze,
Whispering words of untold wisdom.
Gleaned from eons of eavesdropping,
On its many invisible travels
Around the globe.

The unseen listener of many conversations,
Keeper of Confidences,
Storer or Secrets,
Librarian of Lies,
Treasurer of Truths.
Spreading the gospel of God,
By the Mediterranean Sea.

I went away
And wrote.

Warm winds,
Helicopter hovering,
Gentle gyrations.
Drenched dog,
Bedraggled by brine.
Dappled writing,
Caused by the sun
Through the brim
Of my hat.

Beach-combing bum,
Scouring the shoreline,
With a plastic bag,
because of the hole
In my pocket.

Gone is the moment
For forced photography,
A thousand photos,
But only one picture.

Stranger on a foreign shore,
Leaving only footprints
In the sands;
Taking nothing
But memories.

Beached rowboats;
Wooden rafts,
Made from discarded
Wine crates.

Dusti Rodes (2002)