Gord

2014-08-12 12:00 am

In jealousy they salt the earth,
An appearance for my demise,
I die and no tear falls perched,
A fitting design for a tyrant.
In jealousy you all despise.

Hypocrites stall the trade of curd.
Poetically their dreams are poor,
No science behind an abstract score,
Chipping in a two cent piece,
When the wishing well is already full. 

The Sophist

2014-08-07 12:00 am

Don' be 'fraid just don' come back.
Don' plan attacks on modern days.
They don' like us 'cause we're free,
If "free" means happily enslaved.
Raped every day but with a smile,
Hostility like Abu Ghraib,
Graves stone but a worthless trial,
We might as well carve frowning faces,
Omit names and write words only in dirt.
There just write "fags".
"Junior pupil at a private school nailed by
 nerds."
Then just laugh at it.
Muslims aren't depraved,
Lennon even spoke at large of living in a bag.
It's freedom in a way,
Think about it,
Living without caste,
Judged only by your spoken word sans judgement
 'pon your face.
They sort of make a case,
I'll even take it off if you can find a private place,
It's just less of a disgrace.
To think my mid-pubescent beard could not  
 effect my fate.
Ignoring shit we hate,
We could probably find a pace that we can all 
 relate.
Chill music but still rocking in your face,
Fat bowl of potato dill salad I created.
Personally, I like war with lots of laughs;
It can be great.
Nothing personal, but I'll crack 'spic and
 nigger jokes all day.

The Sophist

2014-07-24 12:00 am

Quick, snap some pictures so my friends can see my band.
 We don't have any good songs yet so they wouldn't
 understand without the glamour shots.

Quick, take some stammered stills while I hammer shots. This
 will be the best band to make it the top without a strand
 of talent in our hands. 

Don't tell me how to raise my band. I know what music looks
 like; tactfully unplanned. I write Pizza Hut music like
 Ariana Grande. I expand, and so disband. My drummer had
 demands, and ignored my commands. My solo career takes
 stand. 

Quick, snap some more glamour shots so my friends can see
 firsthand depraved aspects of my brand.

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.

Gord

2014-05-15 12:00 am

So low, I write solos. solo.
No hope, no dope, no jenkem,
To inhale into my lungs alone.
No friends to inhale with.
My redemption will be none.
Album sales will resemble past figures.
One.

The Sophist

2014-04-29 12:00 am

I'd strike out the sun for harming sinews,
This service I'll pay myself as a fine,
Enlarger of kingdom if ever I die,
'queathing my soul for the roar of a lion.

I giveth thee lukewarm blood of a newborn,
God my appetite; I hunger for power.
Shrew Lord of perpetual night liveth nigh,
Covered from danger in half-lighted fog.

Co-sign and write before bloodlines congeal.
Our magic will bring desolation to smog.
Fill the lines afore 'why?' and 'oh sigh'
Flog grace and damnation 'till three parts combine.

Gord

2014-04-03 12:00 am

I have Rob Ford exposure;
I have Rob Ford composure;
I write mockeries in prose,
Which are meant to be poetically modest.
But I end up stuffing them in mailboxes,
Lighting them afire in a drunken stupor.

Gord

2014-03-07 12:00 am

I am the Koala that eats eucalyptus.
Additively good as cigarettes is.
I embrace my lack of education,
I can never become king of the matrix.

I am the Human, who also thinks of eucalyptus often.
In my dream I can see leaves, each just as delicious as the last was.
I barely find time to write rhymes,
I am busy gathering more eucalyptus.

I am the prophet, sought after and brought forward.
My eucalyptus addiction has brought me fame and regard.
Retards were entertained by my antics, and I danced with the stars.
Afterwards I dashed back to an apartment, ate eucalyptus for hours.

ENVOY
God, do you hear me?
I beckon thee for leaves.
Not just for me, but for all the people.
The greenest Euc from the finest of trees.

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

* The driving force within - I don't know the meanings, I just feel the feelings *

The kick inside,
Gives the reasons to write.
It's the sign of the writer,
Not the fighter in me.
Or maybe it is.

It's all here.
That which has been written,
Honed and pared,
To give timbre to the tomes.

The fears and frustrations,
The high days and holidays.
The black days and the blank days.
The literary diamonds, the golden nuggets.
All the bum lines and the b******t,
Of poetic wisdom, and otherwise.


Dusti Rodes (1997)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Influences in my life

 The father of the modern computer,
 Clive Sinclair;
 Bill Gates, for giving us software.
 Edward de Bono's
 Lateral thinking.
 Metaphysical poets,
 Spiritualism;
 The Beatles, of course;
 John Lennon in particular.
 The woman at the bus stop;
 The North American Indian culture.
 David Carradine, for Kung Fu;
 John Keating for the Dead Poets Society,
 Melanie Safkta, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez,
 John Denver, for just being themselves.
 Zen Buddism, Taoism, Confucius;
 Plato, Socrates, Kipling;
 Schizophrenia, for never leaving me on my own;
 And a cast of thousands,
 That have caused me
 To write it all down.

 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)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

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)