Lovely weather for Dunners' ducks (tongue in cheek peek at Dunedin's historic deluge)
"Stares upstairs..
Angels’ weeing above..
Be a good chap..
Show some love bruv..
Turn off the tap..
*****
No refuge from the subterfuge of the deluge..
Parched sandbag phalanxes..
Ranks marching in flanks..
Arching across busted banks..
Quaffing..scoffing..downpour spanks..
**********
Disbelief at the leisurely river Leith..
Despairing at it baring...glaring..teeth
Hurling....haring to unsheaf grief..
Mischief rashly unfurling…
Brashly whirling beneath.
Bawdry..tawdry thief...
******
Baffled..can't they see...squiffy South D in a jiffy downed..
Snaffled..drowned and raffled to the sea..
Don't they care...iffy white caps slaps..won't perhaps spare even sniffy..
Snooty..spiffy St Clair..
****
This rain ruckus.. pluvial palaver...
Whichever not whatever...
It totally sucks..
Planet forever in..
Fluvial flummoxed flux..
Tis rather lovely weather..
Though for Dunedin's ducks.."
heart of compassion, stifled by rejection
concealed with conscientious imperfections
marvel mind mortified by man made mistakes
confined in constraint, no mental escape
flunking society's supposed expectancy,
failing oneself, free-falling inwardly
sparkles in eyes subsided, light subdued
flame flickers restrained by winded worries' mood
foreboding face, faded flat with fatigue
harness of helplessness, harrowing grief
sandbag shoulders, sullen with unbounded burden
unknown, none come close, to help the hurting
9/9/2023
Dreams surge in and out with the dozing.
Some are new, some are repeats and series.
It's hard to control what's played remotely.
It's hard to understand what pops up, and when.
It's hard to switch the nightmares off and bad ones to pause
It's hard to know if your dream is lucid or not, dreaming when conscious,
knowing you are in your dream, while continuing to dream.
Perhaps you are daydreaming or sleepwalking?
Does and mirror show you, does the time on a clock change?
Pinch your nose, can you still breathe?
Can you feel your hands grasp real objects?
Set a goal to remember that you’re dreaming to become lucid.
Being lucid is the best way to control your dreaming,
and to know the nightmare isn’t real and will end.
Being lucid evokes the sandman
to sprinkle magic sand in eyes,
so that any dream you dream,
is beautiful in recall,
or you dream not at all,
or your dreams are not recalled.
Dancing to Sisqo
like a dad at a disco
that ain’t the diss though
you’re a straight up pissed ho
handbag on the dance floor
where your sandbag **** fall
straps see you trip fool
your ugly face hit sore
wake up toothless
seeking a toothbrush
though it be useless
what a flipping doofus
go home harbour a criminal
brain damage acts horrible
talking his world of bull
so thick you believe the tool,
keep mans away and hidden
they’re out to get rid of him
swears on his kid again
but the kid don’t remember him,
causes trouble is he worth it
when all say he deserves it
pause, think, is he nervous?
6 foot under the surface,
when you’re just a pissed ho
out to dance at a disco
now granting a wish so
this dreg ain’t a missed bro.
And
in the end
I sandbag
my life
as much
as I can.
Battle Rap With Brenda Chiri
Brenda Chiri don't try me
It's not old and told,
same gun, bullets roll,
pull it hole
strolling rhymes,
quick time,
literally laying these words at pace
while you take out a pen and paper
jotting down like a waiter,
rhymes to cater
couldn't be straighter,
down the line
the same constant whine
from the kind drinking wine,
out the bottle not the glass,
you aint got the throttle or the class
to spas alongside my asss,
I'll set you a task
watch you finish last,
dragging your handbag to bits,
alongside your sandbag tets,
I can do the splits and backflips,
you have splits in your hips,
see me now, I plough like magic,
your comebacks are plastic
made with fake fabric,
with laxative patches
you're like Bush giving a speech,
five letter words beyond your vocal reach,
needing a teacher like a freak,
I fight on the beaches,
I'll fight you and all your beaches,
egging you on,
like Brenda you strong
but your words make me mong,
so until next time for now I say to you so long.
It's so hot outside, I feel hot inside.
The heat of the day is on it's way.
The heat inside is an angry fire,
Stoked by fear,hate and distress,
Consuming love,joy and happiness.
Why do we allow this to be so,
To be honest, I really don't know.
Too much time spent alone on stag,
Wondering why for you time is a drag.
Staring out into the deepest dark,
Wondering if tonight you are the mark.
Weapon at ready, finger on the guard,
Resting on the sandbag, traversing to and fro.
Look at that car, why is it going too slow,
Guy jumps out starts to run away,
You take him down as the car explodes,
Turning deepest night into fiery day.
Your time is up and your duty done,
You survived again until the next one.
© Dave Timperley 27 July 2016
Doubled over like a sandbag
I examine the scars of gluttony
And the leftovers of
mistake cake
Little blistered trails litter
My infirm white skin
Like little red tears in my heart
They shame me, they wet my eyes
They burry my suffocating bones
Under the weight
Of what I’ve done
And each step I take to heal
Brandishes new stains
Each bounding step
Unearths deep heaves in my chest
And air can’t come soon enough
The salt won’t stop building up
And I am just pile of sand
Unable to stand
Or take his hand
And be something worth a smile
Or a kiss, or a diamond on the wrist
I am stuck in a room
And I can’t get out
Not here, not now
And I know that…
It’s because I am fat.
days of benign stealth
lawns, gardens, orchards drink to my health
the road's been unkind
well it's gone, it's flowed on behind
let me recline in this boon
mellow noon
the bell might ring
spiteful and soon
days of serene sloth
cirri bind the sky in strips of clean cloth
and they barely support its weight of light
and i circle my core like a moth
tell me whose darned flitting hand
lit this little burner just below my head
that it moves higher up with each sandbag shed
and i never knew how far my land spread
now i long for something to make
now i ache for something to wield
earthbound and sunbaked
like a worker in the field
comets strike terror
bombing nations rapid fire...
a slaughterhouse roasts
spiked towers pierce flesh…
drenched with blood of raw corpses
like clotheslines on trees
from skies tainted black
grounds crumble into thin rust…
world in drained sandbag
then, God says enough
angels swoop to tend remains…
guarding earth anew
.......... . ..
Gail Doyle's Contest
End of the World Armageddon
The Rivers
The rivers go up and the rivers go down… but seldom to this extreme.
This year has been a nasty one, as if living in a bad dream.
The days have been dark and cloudy and the rain seems never to end…
Tornadoes, lightening, and flooding have suddenly become our only friends.
The yards are turning to soup as the rainstorms keep circling around.
And the rivers are adding force as they climb with leaps and bounds.
Record flooding in so many places, has forced many to move out and quit.
Without their homes, financially, few will be able to rebuild or take the hit.
To the elderly losing to the river is losing everything that can’t be replaced.
But volunteers have moved among them to help sandbag in their place.
Thank you all who have volunteered for this cause.
No one can do it all alone
You give the others hope…
To hang on until the rains are done.