The Sophist

2015-05-13 12:00 am

A charge upon thee,
Assault upon my person,
Trigger of my dignity,
Myth'll make it worsen,
Find two and two as three,
Head hung beneath a merkel,
Abhoring Greek,
Abhoring Roman,
Abhor mythology.

Abhor to write or speak.
When weakness strong,
And braveness weak.
And as we sleep,
No longer fly,
No longer laugh,
No longer climbing trees,
Our dreams are gone,
As a treat,
We put pure reason in our mouths,
Infected with disease.

Veins infected too,
Running to my finger tips,
Swelling to the moon,
Back into my wrist,
Swaying to the tune,
In need of amethyst.
To cure me of my drunken state,
Kiss me with your teeth,
Make me feel your pain,
Then kiss me with your drunken lips.
Burn the greatest books,
Whisper greatest stories,
Slowly back away from bliss,
Lying down,
Accept defeat,
Merrily,
Ideas are but temperless.

Gord

2015-02-09 12:00 am

Voice 1:
I may ask a question of nonsense,
However I ask not philosophical,
Practically, cannot we heed,
We merely speculate, sight unseen.
Anointing of the dyke absurd,
Fools searching to search of,
What poignancy is a question like,
What is strife?
Why not question, what is life?

Voice 3:
Life is currency of an institution,
When I speak loud of retribution.
We both die upon our war machine,
Apropos closure for those supine.
Solution besting additional convolution.

Voice 1:
Passing stars dull with light,
So perhaps all fate is forever finite.
And all twilight is then n'everlasting,
Caste chaste over trivial happening,
Casting themselves of classical tragedy,
Without squalor or clothes raggedy,
Hip stores looking to rewrite history.

Voice 3:
True, but I see no god protector.
Contractors of the holy body,
They are probably of nobody.
Villains to die of destiny,
Enemy of the true spectacular.
Enemy not just of the vernacular,
Binoculars or arbitrator.
An enemy alike to a Reich betrayer.

The Sophist

2014-09-25 12:00 am

Decay and the rifle alone. Censored by Gods as 
cold winter snow passes men stuck in glop as 
it blows. Who knows? What the fuck does a soul 
call a home? Accepting ideals without gloves 
being shown. Refuting belief but still knowing 
that something transcends all of time, space, 
math, and the know-how. Gloating but feeling 
in pain for lost souls turned wayward, 
corrupt, or depraved by the fallout.

Take it in, as it turns out, by talking in 
strides with the crowds. Softly speak glop 
when it counts. Slowly speak up, and never 
speak out.

The Sophist

2014-09-04 12:00 am

Both sides support reform,
God I feel dumb,
Then I go back to watching porn,
That still too is dumb,
Ah, ugh, I'm wracking my poor brain,
Surely nothing can be done,
If something clearly is insane.

Begone to the pits of apathy,
Where men are fighting to succeed,
Be free from binds which binding me,
Lead me blind to blind society.
Truth be told it would be great,
To record sounds and meditate,
Without hoping to get paid,
Ad space isn't free,
We pity ourselves if ads are sent to peace.

We sent our brothers off to war.
Speaking of the fun;
Fighting for a rival hoard.
Dying in the sun;
Pierced by a brother's sword.
Ah, ugh, I'm wracking my poor brain,
Thieves thieved some time for fun,
Our heroes appearing more and more depraved.

To share the same disease,
Tortured through our dreams,
To decay among the trees,
Torment; a short and brutish piece,
Yet all of it is great,
Bleeding essence every day,
Alderson loop of disjunctive melodies,
Existence sings in remedies,
Never will the tempest ease,
Yet underneath there lay a silent tone,
Arranging scattered harmonies.

The Sophist

2014-07-04 12:00 am

He speaks in subterfuge,
He makes myth from animal bones, 
'scribes visions of mothers viewed postnatal,
He calls them "future you".
He claims Caesar's final breath found you.
He sees a subtle use,
And has you build his thrones.
He's too busy to view.
He gives you your fill,
You attack at his illusions,
'til your confusion is ill.

I write folk songs for fools.
Without steps I reach your homes,
Crying disses of another's views most fatal
I call them "false truths",
I hand out bauble knives to the Fountain Youth,
I burn the stable spruce,
And make off with the stones,
I take the dragons too,
I live just to kill,
I attack at your confusion,
Pushing your illusions downhill.

The Sophist

2014-05-28 12:00 am

From dying lips was told,
A tale of winters melting wax,
Turning summers cold.
Stranger tales we will betell,
I'm sure,
Stranger sights we will behold.
Forever we will speak the truth,
Except regarding days of yore.

The Sophist

2014-04-25 12:00 am

Self circled in dirt,
Drawn via stick,
To conjure Lapland giants,
Keeping them sic,
Self free from hurt,
To conjure vagrants and larrikins,
Doing battle in mine eyes,
Cain's mark upon my lamb skins,
Letters in twine.
Speaking names in droves of demons,
Melodic tunes 'twixt thought and time,
Emblems of the saints and spirits,
'Mephisto, please, appear and rise!'
Ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis!
A basilisk thus clouds mine eyes.
'Switch form you beast, but please don't die!'
Smoke appears to change the guise,
'Return to me Franciscan Monk!'
By magic I am blindly drunk,
Mephisto doth appear to me,
Apparently, he says, with ease.
But apparently his own volition,
Per accidens he blessed my wishes.
'I charge thee wait upon my life,
Do what Sophist shall command,
Be it moon to fall from night,
Oceans all to swallow land,
Orient wife with adjunct girls,
Harvest the seas of opulent pearls.
Surgat nobis dicatus The Sophist!
Pray devoutly to the prince of hell,
Confounding home with Elysium,
The Sophist;
To Whom Sophist dedicates himself.'
Conjuror laureate beyond control,
Mephisto a piece;
Mystery whole.

The Sophist

2014-04-21 12:00 am

In the name of women's rights,
Two young men get pissed and die,
By the blade in his own hand,
By the rope he himself tied.
In the name of women's rights,
To never find out why,
To never hear converse opinions,
A mental homicide.
Bitches screaming loudly,
'til their voices touch the sky.
A lot of them are guys,
Barring men from their own brethren,
In the name of women's rights.
Hoards of them unite;
Birds in search of civil war,
Spread their wings in flight,
Planning only in the sun.
They tear away the night,
Blocking doors and bearing torches,
Forcing entry via fight.
As such, I fear I might,
Find my way to unknown speaker,
And be confronted via knife,
By fanatics without wives,
Or fanatics without husbands,
Living stark perverted lives.

Gord

2014-04-03 12:00 am

I find fault at the way we speak.
Common practice happens to be harmful.
Why not cause change?
Because It's not change you seek.
You seek far less than mediocrity;
Practice harder and ply a trade,
Realize what it is to carry an armful;
I find fault at the way kids speak;
The common practices, owning Iphones.
Of their needing to cause change.
Of standing and telling me I'm the cynic.
Standing with less skill than Dionysus;
The propaganda industry only has 50 years;
No readable peer review, judges or pundits.
Industry fooling people into contributions.
No revolution, strictly opaque movement.
True knowledge occult only by emotion elicited.
We just don't need a German Nazi Party revisit.

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Memories of Menorca

The solitary star
The lone gull
Lack of light
dark and deep
Guarded by the lion-dog
In two-tone green and black and white
Part Chihuahua, part Pekinese.

Sunrise over Citudella
Purple and pink
Blues and browns
Age old ruins
Built of rocks
That are tumbling down.

Out of the stillness
Came a rustle
The wind whispered "Morning"
Gull winging, effortlessly
Sparrows busying in their daily task
Of feeding their families.

No different from other mere mortals
Who stand and observe
Through peephole portals
On life below and above.

Pylons, all in a line,
Taking power to the people.
John Lennon would be proud.

Illuminated cars, kerb crawling
At dawn's half light;
Wondering whether to switch off
As it is no longer night.

To hell with sunrise
Watching the clouds come up,
Shrouding the stars
With their whiteness
From the deep dark blue
Of Menorcan night.

An old boy, reminds me of myself,
Lone party goer, maybe?
One hell of a walk
From Cala Forcat
After our session at Night Fever.
Sun rises over Citudella
And Cala Blanes.

Rabbits running,
Ants busy, busy;
Relaxing perhaps,
For a jam sandwich
Carelessly cast away.
Before the heat forces
Them to siesta,
On a Menorcan morning
At the end of June.

A lone songbird,
Chortles its wakeup tune;
My bag, bathed in Menorcan sunlight
Casting shadows of strangest hues
The old currant bun
Promising a day of brightness.

Painted by light,
In Nature's brightest colours,
The single rock on the lawn
Looking like a monolith
From eons past.

A donkey, braying,
Radio, playing
People, singing,
And speaking in Spanish.
Then, Rick Astley,
In English.
Never going to give you up.
Menorcan memories.


Dusti Rodes (2002)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Runaway

 Staying at the safe house,
 In Leeds.
 Secure from the ponces,
 And the pimps.

 Dressed smartly
 All in black.
 Determined that
 She's never going back.

 It took five whole days
 Before she could even
 Mouth her name.
 Was it through fear?
 Or was it through shame?

 Another seven passed
 Till she could speak,
 About the atrocities
 She had been through.

 And it took another long week
 To pass her by;
 Before she ever found,
 The strength to cry.

 Dusti Rodes (2009)

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)