AsPoet

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Spoilt For Choice (Sainsburys Saga)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

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."

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

In the Wind

Fixing Fences & Painting Pickets

In the Wind

The lonely nights. They were the worst part. The long hours spent building the bike. Burning the midnight oil until the cold light of dawn took over the illuminations.
He sat, oil-stained mug in his grease-decked ham of a fist. Java's best, steaming, burning his throat raw with every lug. Was this his thirteenth or fourteenth today? He couldn't remember now. The massive doses of caffeine failing in their allotted task of feigning off fatigue; the accumulated grounds covering the mug bottom in a remnant of Mississippi mud, deep, from down in the Deltas. The first finger and thumb of his free hand were deftly putting the finishing touches to the joint he was rolling. It was a little art he'd picked up during his frequent stays at Her Majesty's Pleasure at various establishments around the country. His makings lay strewn over the old table that served as totem-factotum to his needs. Diner, workbench, even pillow on multiple occasions over recent months. He raised the cigarette to his lips, and with a single action that comes with years of practise, sealed it with his saliva. With it now ensconced in his mouth, he reached for the lighter, lit it, and took a deep toke. The sweet smell permeated his flaring nostrils, while he drew down the smoke deep into his lungs. As he exhaled, his heavy eyelids closed momentarily. The necessary effort required to open them again proving too much in his tired state, he allowed his mind to wander.
Where had it all started? When was it now? Pour quoi? The combination of drugs and fatigue was fast inducing sleep, which only served to confuse the thought processes he was desperately trying to assimilate to no avail it seemed.
The auto-jumble sale in Birmingham, that was it!
That's where he'd first seen the bike, and realised its potential. An ex-WD combo. A 1948 six hundred cc, single cylindered side valve, from the Birmingham Small Arms company. With a camouflage green paint job. 'Distinctive', the vendor had called it. Hardly Milwaukee Iron, but beggars can't be choosers, can they? He'd only paid two hundred quid for the lot. And the seller had thrown in set of front suspension springer forks from a 1949, M20. The 500cc model that the dispatch riders normally used in the wartime. They were standard equipment on both the combination and solo set-ups. And they were chromed already! Save him a fortune that would. He'd altered the rake on the steering to an inch and three quarters over stock. That'll give him that low-rider effect he wanted. Just like Peter Fonda's in the film.

Dusti Rodes (2007)

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Every Cloud has a Silver Lining

Working the Wilderness

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)

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Jazz Duellin

Tinning Tobacco

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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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Ode to Martha

2006

Ode to Martha

 My muse, a Harridan hag?
 I don't think so!
 Some have familiars, in the shape of cats.
 Others have Spirit Guides,
 Which are Red Indian warriors.

 I don't do all that PC stuff,
 And say they are Native North Americans!

 Me? My muse is a wizened old woman.

 I was killing time, standing outside the Hospice shop,
 Waiting for my watch repair to be ready.

 One split second she wasn't there, I swear, 
 The next she was!
 She appeared from nowhere, I'm telling you!

 The encounter with the woman in the grey shawl.

 It took just ten minutes that was all.
 But it will last a lifetime.
 Mine.

 Was it real, or was it a dream?
 Was she a witch or a wraith?
 Merely a ghost or a gregarious goblin, 
 In disguise?

 The situation certainly had all the makings of a mystery,
 And all the trappings of a thriller.

 The people I tell just stare at me strangely.
 Who wouldn't? I ask myself.
 I'd probably do just the same,
 If it wasn't for the fact,
 That it had happened to me.

 She came from the North, or so she said.
 Irmerston is a name I recall her using.
 More than once.
 Or was it that she had relatives there?

 Was I really 'touched by an angel'?
 There was definitely ' a laying on of hands',
 As in the biblical sense.

 Could this have been an encounter of the Fourth kind?
 Hebrews thirteen has a lot to answer for.

 She said she was eighty five.
 And had been a Mormon since she was forty.
 But in some lights I would have sworn she wasn't yet sixty.
 In others, she had a face that had seen more than a thousand summers.

 I've heard of shape-shifters,
 I never thought to meet one.

 Many say I talk at tangents, 
 And maybe they are right.
 I do waffle on a bit.
 Never keeping to the same subject for long.

 Fleeting thoughts,
 Forever fluttering,
 Like a butterfly in its short life span.

 Over the last couple of years,
 The diagnosis of my chronic atrial fibrillation,
 Has caused me to consider my life expectancy.
 And to realise it may be seriously shortened
 At any time in the near future.

 But she spoke confidently and authoritatively,
 About longevity.

 Quoting several incidences of people living to a good age.
 Katherine Hepburn living to a hundred.
 Her long relationship with Spencer Tracy.
 And made it sound so matter of fact,
 That Katherine had given him a cup of tea,
 Shortly before he finally died.
 It was as if she had been there at the time.

 Her opening gambit had been to draw my attention,
 To a boxed set of Frank Sinatra records.
 Displayed in the shop window.

 As I intimated earlier,
 I'm sure I was alone outside that shop.
 And the sound of her speaking to me had startled me,
 Into realising she was standing beside me.

 She started by saying Frank had a daughter, Nancy.
 And a son, Frank Jr.
 She talked about his Mafia connections.

 When I retorted that rumours were rife,
 During all of Sinatra's life.
 But that he had never publicly admitted to the allegations.

 She intimated that the reason being was,
 That Frank had not actually done anything 'bad' so to speak.

 At that moment, she gave me the distinct impression,
 That she might have known him and his family intimately.
 But how could that be?

 I was becoming afraid of the enormity,
 Of the developing situation.
 So I made my excuses to leave,
 And she let me go wishing me well.
 We parted.
 Me going my way, she hers.

 I picked up the watch from the menders.
 It must have taken all of two minutes.
 When I suddenly realised the terrible mistake I had made,
 In cutting our conversation short.

 I began searching the town.
 Shop by shop.
 Each individual lane up and down.
 But to no avail.
 Seeming she had disappeared the same way she arrived.
 Suddenly.

 It wasn't till I was on the bus travelling home.
 Feeling thoroughly desolate.
 That I heard her voice again.

 But this time it was different.
 She was inside my head, talking to me.
 She said artists, of all kinds,
 Needed inspiration from time to time.
 And she would be mine, if I let her.

 I know now I made a mistake,
 I thought I was her 'mark' in the town,
 And she was just getting ready to put the sales spiel on me,
 To buy her that expensive bottle of sherry.
 That she said was the only one that she drank.

 She'd talked about many things,
 And how everybody had vices.
 Drugs, booze, cigarettes etc.
 She said how hers weren't too bad.

 Just a tipple now and again of the sherry,
 That could be bought in Tesco's.
 (Which had been across the way,
 From where we had been standing)
 At nine pounds a bottle.

 Here we go, I'd thought,
 Here comes the pitch;
“Hard times 'n' all, for an old lady.
 You seem a nice person,
 Could you see your way clear to buying me a bottle, maybe?"

 This is why I had up and ran.
 But instead, here was she offering me the gift!

 Some writers have residencies. I am hers.

 Where we will go from here, is any body's guess.
 Just watch this space!
 But I do suggest you don't waste your time,
 Standing outside the Hospice shop,
 In the vague hope she might just amble along.

 Because she's mine,
 And I'm keeping her!

 Dusti Rodes (2006)

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

A Modern Day Cowboy

2007

A Modern day Cowboy.

 " But signor, if he is the best,
 With the Gun, AND the Knife;
 Then with whom does he compete? "

 " With Himself ...."

 ( Scene from the film - The Magnificent Seven )

 Perfoming with puppets,
 Plied from papier mache.
 Drafting drawings,
 Scribbled from sketches.
 Making models,
 Worked from wood.
 Crafted from clay.
 Moulded meticulously
 In metal.
 Pummelling putty,
 And plasticine.
 While leaving puddles
 Of Plaster of Paris.
 Working with words,
 In a wonderful way.
 That continues to paint
 Personal pictures,
 Framed in people's minds.
 Potter, Puppeteer,
 Painter and Poet.
 Writer & raconteur,
 Teller of tales.

Dusti Rodes (2007)

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Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

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2014-03-05 12:00 am

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2014-03-05 12:00 am

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2014-03-04 12:00 am

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2014-03-04 12:00 am

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Format Manuscript