The Sophist

2014-06-10 12:00 am

As acumen abjects, 
Objectors expect to see;
Families dissecting tragically,
A death in the humanities,
Favor to the selfless vanities,
That favor self-indulged reality,
Unfavoring the human breed,
With all due respect,
I don' respect the scene,
I don' spect to pass unseen,
By turning 'round in leave,
I'll levitate with ease,
Every package needing fleet,
Sans rest sleeping on my feet,
Life absurd in retrospect.

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

2014-03-18 12:00 am

Dwelling in the desperate,
Hermitage of my heart,
Life is apparent, 
Yet it appears to be not,
As it seams,
Cupid's eyes blinded by cloth yards,
Shooting at places unseen,
And all the arrows' arc,
Landing on me,
Heart changing by second,
Changing more in between,
This Cupid gone blinded,
Young, fat little fiend,
Now days pass idyllically,
Lost in the breeze,
Days Simon Iff spends searching the trees,
His goal has been set,
Simple Simon sets free,
Hiram Abiff in the woods on his knees.
Arms cut from body,
Both hands full of dandies.

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)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Windows

 I was still but a boy,
 When my people first started horsetrading,
 With the white man, Bill Gates;
 For livestock to be used on the cyber plains.

 Ninety Five was a poor breed,
 Made up of mixed bloodlines.
 Favoured by the white man.
 They know nothing of horse stock.

 Ninety Eight, though mixed with broken mustang;
 Were a bad breed, skittish, having to be hobbled often.

 ME were ponies that found much favour with the Pawnees, as pack-horses.
 They did not ride well.

 XP are better, their bloodlines come from the wild mustang herds,
 That frequent the vast plains.
 Apaches, the best horsemen, in creation;
 Use them to great advantage.

 The Vista are good animals but unpredictable,
 Causing their users many problems.

 But I have heard of a new breed,The Seven.
 It is said to be the result of mixing wily mountain mustang herds,
 With the speed of the white man's Arabian stallion stock.
 Creating a truly unique workhorse.

 I shall get one and find out if this is true.
 They say that with such a beast,
 I shall need all my rodeo skills.
 It is yet to be seen,
 Only time will truly tell.

Dusti Rodes (2008)

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)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

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)

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

Blowin' the Blues

Remembering the men I have fought,
The women I have bought.
The drinks I have drunk.
Bad beer, gut-rotting whiskey.
Southern style,
Down in the deltas.

Recalling the sights I have seen,
The places I have been.
Hot whorehouses in the south.
Bar-room bordellos in the north.

Me and my bitches.
Those fancy foreign fillies,
Monique and Monica.
The Delta Lady and the Bar Belle.
Who would harp on so well.

Cajun queens,
Both of them.
Blow-job beauties.
Who would accompany me,
The many times, that I travelled,
To the crossroads.

Where I often heard,
Johnson and the ol' Devil,
Duelling on ghostly guitars.
Manic music playing.
Causing the howling baying.
Emitting from the throats,
Of the Hounds of Hell. 


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

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)

The Sophist

2014-03-03 12:00 am

Mame is me;
The game is in emulating everything seen;
Swapping keys,
Shame and hatred;
Ethereally;
Seeking peace;
'scaping to the reeking happy hollow of a tree.