Gord

2015-10-14 12:00 am

Massacre of snow, 
Child of the show, 
Slowly bleeds out. 
Career slowly peters, cloudy. 
What revisits, reissued, remains, 
Revised so the nature is the man, 
With cervical bone in hand, 
A deity claims law, 
Being whole of the land. 

Gord

2015-07-22 12:00 am

The drunk denies,
Trunk lies emptied;
Whole lives gone ashtray,
Until God led astray;
Upon a broken branch,
Dangling over Hades.
Calm as the sea,
She walks the tightrope.
God decides not popes,
Nor who is to be.

wanderer

2015-05-05 12:00 am

I lie eagerly awaiting for your return
exhilarated by the thought of your lips
once again touching my famished soul anew,
then by the light of the moon you hesitantly came,
first, a gentle, subtle caress
gingerly knocking on my sands
then 
a gradual deluge,
enveloping
consuming,
the whole stretch of my being
and as I lie prostrate ,
ecstatic with our intimacy, 

you have once again retreated silently
to the mighty vastness of your benefactor..,

But you shall never be mine,

for the ocean is a jealous lover.
and I am eternally condemned
to be your willing mistress
caught in this perpetual longing
waiting
anticipating
desiring
For the next cycle....

Gord

2015-02-11 12:00 am

ACT I:
The brother of the first protagonist  challenges the first antagonist to a duel, during which the wife of the first antagonist interferes on the battle causing the brother of the first protagonist to be slain. The right hand man of the first protagonist slays the first antagonist in revenge, during which the wife of the first antagonist flees. The right hand man of the first protagonist is injured, and takes a much longer period to reach home than the wife of the first antagonist.

The wife of the first antagonist spread false rumors of cheating on the side of the brother of the first protagonist, and takes a secret lover as her new husband.

ACT II:
A long period passes and the first protagonist agrees to battle both the first antagonists wife and her new husband, who looks to regain the honor of his small kingdom against the wealth and influence of the wealthy protagonist.

During the battle, a man who looks alike to the first protagonist (second antagonist) shows up and watches over the battle as the first protagonist slays both the first antagonists' wife and her husband. As he celebrates his victory, the second antagonist slays the first protagonist with an arrow, and his right hand man disposes of the bodies.

ACT III:
A short period passes with no word of a victor on either side and the wife of the first protagonist has a breakdown, and she dies just before her husbands funeral.

During the ceremony the second antagonist shows up and declares that he is alive, and had just fallen into a river during their battle after slaying them both. A great celebration is held in his honor during which he does not question where his wife is until the right hand man of the first protagonist mentions it, which raises his suspicions. The Right Hand Man of the first protagonist is demoted whole the right hand man of the second antagonist is promoted.

ACT IV:
The second protagonist (RHM of the first protagonist) attempts to gain evidence against the second antagonist, however, the second antagonist falls ill and dies. The second protagonist gains evidence of the truth at the second protagonists funeral, but chooses not to reveal the sensitive information, and instead plans to slay the right hand man of the second antagonist, although he has reached a high ranking position since his arrival, especially as his name was left a large inheritance by the second antagonist.

The Sophist

2015-01-21 12:00 am

You know that you listen,
To the heart of my soul,
Beating harder and whole.
Hole deep darker than coal.
I give my volition;
To this part of my role.
Any home is my prison;
When I lack the control.

The Sophist

2014-09-08 12:00 am

Oh, I'm tired of secrets,
While I'm fighting off wolves,
I'm tired of insomia,
While sleeping in the woods.
Oh, I'm afraid;
That this whole world may be depraved,
And the only thing I lived for stabbed me in a prank.

My life,
My Brother,
And my old friend;
Slowly insert the dagger again.
The life that I saw 'fore me is dead;
So slowly insert the dagger again.

Forever I'll die and you'll stay a mess.

The Sophist

2014-07-23 12:00 am

Law makes obligatory,
More than one Nation,
To waste business hours,
Achieving more profligation.

You shall not pass,
The whole world may perish,
From Brahma to a blade of grass,
But you are still here.

All uninhibitory,
Lord of Creation,
You are in all things,
You are in every location.

View darkness unmasked,
The whole world you cherish,
Will dissolve in a flash,
But still have no fear,
Knowing self world dissolves,
Ignorant it appeared,
You are the heart of awareness,
No less, end of story.

Gord

2014-06-11 12:00 am

I dander,
To her I cling tightly,
In her I find me.
In me she finds her;
So clothesline or a ligature,
Is just a state of mind being.
At least, that's what I'm seeing;

So I pander,
I find the back end of a hand,
Which leaves me more filled with anger.
Yet everyday I manage.

Until I found out the sun is dangled,
So perhaps too, the moon is dangled,
Leaving me in anger.
My love in the clutches of another,
My whole life fandangled;

The Sophist

2014-05-06 12:00 am

Brown the new black,
White the new Arab,
A new wave of terror,
The whole world is scared of.
A new version of false flag,
By creating false nations,
Causing in artists a self-flagellation,
All these rebellions are government run,
Occupy is government run,
The Arab Springs are government run,
Benghazi was government run,
Movies are made using government funds,
Syrian Opposition on The Simpsons in 2001,
A decade later formed in Syria,
Why so much talk about guns,
Alcohol, war, and marijuana?
Using themes to denigrate people,
In the very grounds that they run.
Leaders were raised on Hare-Abian Nights,
Now they kill Arabs for fun.

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.

Kodyboi

2014-04-23 12:00 am

I remember when we broke up the first time.
I remember trying to do nothing.
Saying "this is it", like a Jackson hit.
I remember not seeing you for about a month.
I remember waking up,
I remember remembering a punch in the mouth,
Reminding me to chart future relationships out.

I'm calling it off.
The wedding and the dates you liar.
I'm telling you off this time.

We'll never, ever ever get back together.
Go talk to your friends. Talk to mine.
Waste your time,
Spend your time playing pretend.
End up like Islam on the Balkan Island.

I'm really going to miss writing.
Miss writing is miswriting,
Misleading my idols into the trivial.
Hiding the infinite potential on vinyl.
Throw on the CD, it's more indie than mine.
More John Frusiante than girls from Niandra.
So for another month I'l find peace of mind.

So you called me up,
To talk about like love, but no luck.
Because I was like, and he was like.
and they were like.
Even his parents didn't like him.
So he was like, ugh, boring.
and I'm always touring, so like, fuck him.

We're never, ever, ever, getting back together.
Your friends balk, and my friends bawk.
So the whole thing is pretty complimentary.

The Sophist

2014-04-22 12:00 am

The Ninety Nine Percent?
Represent yourself and fuck majority,
Fuck sitting in a tent,
Fuck sitting in an era,
Where lives are fucking spent,
In jails within America,
The Other One Percent.
They rot while you prepare,
Let it die,
And try again.
Go get high,
And find a pet,
In the whole world's seven bil',
The Land of Free's three fifty mil',
The Liberated Five percent,
Something there disturbs me still,
In jails there's ten times seven mil'.
Metal barring concrete tents,
The Captive;
Occupying One Percent.

Gord

2014-04-09 12:00 am

A moonlit night,
The perfect time,
To play my guitar,
While my mirror shines.
Wholesomely,
I build my melody,
I win my fight.
A shooting star!
I play for her heart,
Still I find no departure,
I still long for my woman.
To die beside her.

Gord

2014-03-24 12:00 am

Another lover, to cuddle up with,
that doesn't mind the pickle breath.
Another 8 days of love,
Before asparagus piss ruins a date,
Before I eat a whole lemon cake,
And a bag of Doritos,
Or was it Frito Lay?

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."

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

My Heart Goes Out

 My heart goes out to you,
 My brothers and sisters.

 The goalkeeper was beaten,
 The ball was on it's way in;
 Then the whole African nation
 Was raped and robbed of Victory
 By the hand of yet another South American.

 Suarez was sent off,
 And so he should
 That was inevitable.
 Annan lined up the penalty shot
 But was beaten by the bar
 The rest was history.

 My brothers and sisters
 Sound your vuvuzela long and hard
 As the death knell to hope.

 Dusti Rodes (2010)

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

Strange Times

Yesterday, while painting the south-facing picket fence in the searing heat of the afternoon sun, my back was burnt to blisters. My hair took on the texture of dry matted straw and was bleached a further two shades of blonde through the holes in my faithful ol' hat.
Today, I'm waiting for the water in the kettle to come to the boil in order to make myself a cup of skinny latte and the heat from the two bars of the toaster doing the bread seems to be warming the whole scullery. The rain, driven by a whistling wind, continues to batter itself against the panes that yesterday shone with the reflections of rippling sunlight.
We are indeed living in strange times!

Dusti Rodes (2007)