"levelling" poems
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan's house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh. All's Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third. A voice
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seventh. They walked the roads
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
1.9k
Mirrored thought full breach horizon
Yearning drawing bridging cry
Intimate complete attraction
Now the moment true imply
Cast aside mendacious forethought
Resolute round purpose fly
Epiphanic thought emerging
Doubts foul gibbous banish say ....
Insp’ration resolute within here
Bursting forth bright intellect
Loosing dogs full purpose forward
Encroaching far reach treaded path
Resolute’ness biting grasping
Endless boundless seeming lost
Blazing purposeful grasp grimly
Energise strong inner soul
Capa’bil’ity strong purpose
Clear thought con’quering foul
Abandon dissolute mist darkness
Intersperse directive steer
Levelling where once lay mountains
Onward pushing prancing laugh
Voices raised fair joyous chorus
Ethereal reaching hands entwine
Yearning warmth transcending distance
Over hill and Moorland track
Understand where strength in thought lay
Accomplishment find perfect peace
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 5:15 AM UTC
The day our eyes spoke was the day I questioned everything I ever had.
That beautiful moment,
I lost track of time
I lost myself looking at you
I felt joy, peace and a sense of being back home
I felt love that I didn't know existed in me
For the first time, I felt absolutely complete
I fell in love with your blue eyes looking back at mine, shining bright with so much love.
I felt strange things inside my body, from my stomach levelling up to my chest and getting outside my eyes.
As I watched you slowly trying to look away then turning back to look at me more clearly
I guess you saw the stars in my eyes.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 9:40 PM UTC
Take the pieces that remain,
I'm leaving them to you.
Use them wisely,
learn the game.
You're now on level two.
You cannot change
what others do.
So what will be, will be.
Remember this.
It won't be long.
You're now on level three.
No need for riches,
don't care you're poor.
Quit the race,
you need no more.
You're now on level four.
Organically dying,
body is old.
Your spirit is flying,
you feel alive.
You're now on level five.
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 1:58 PM UTC
It's my soul wandering in wonders
In ****** and meander it utters
There is never a stop, the levelling
Unveiling like a chorus to another
In a world where I am in disuse
A time where my muse sings
Lovers come and pack up to leave
Wavered like an anthem in discord
A universe where faith itself is a disbelief
A relief of the contours and eventualities
The vision sighted that all is out of balance
Shaky like a chord reaching a crescendo
Rivers so strong that I can't wander through
A swim so strenuous and unfocused
On the tunnel there is a lighted bulb
Glowing like a fire bomb ready to explode
In street and houses where all are struggling
The hidden secrets and the wet pillows
Subtle things that we will never know or see
Lost like a crab unshaken in it's shell
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 7:18 AM UTC
*etymology extract: as was said, they'd read my poetry
on the front, among the billions, a few might tread,
from everyday Monday through to Sabbath,
thus said, archaeologically bound: Egypt, Josephus,
the nativity play, xylophone, and too much
indoctrination acquired to walk like a peacock,
and indeed more strut likening to a crow;
for indeed the waterfall of skulls, the dead sea
which reaches depths higher than peaks of architectural
adventure in man levelling mountains,
exploring sea depths and excavating depths
of the prized orbits: such restlessness never once
but countless times before; so soon forgotten
among the revision of partitioning, that nearer
Israel's resurrection on a foreign continent
than a neighbour's resurrected breath on the continent
concerned... leave unto Persia that book,
and unto Africa the judgement over Egypt...
but so your toying in global affairs is gluttonous in
sugars of hoped for sweeteners in applicability,
paying remnants of the economic enrichment i too remember,
20 to a room... 20 to a room... with baked beans soup
and white bread to send breadcrumbs home...
oh but my scottish compatriots haven't felt the full
**** of immigration, they haven't!*
why not talk of Kazimierz Prószyński
like you do concerning Auguste and Louis Lumière?
oh, i get it, ******* in the hood...
Europe is really foreign accepting the existence
of the once famed commonwealth,
as the present time, with the resurgence of
Israel, which can't be split equally, fathered
and equally brothered among the constituents
from the Baltic to the Black Sea...
from the median to the red...
best keep the sea lions bopping along with dear tourism
in the over-salted sea,
should the dead sea attract more sacrifice than the
touristy hill outside Jerusalem.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
old poem from the 90s
Sitting patiently atop his tree camouflaged
against the enemy, the ****** waits.
For three days and three nights he has waited
to do his duty for Imperial Japan.
Along the trail walks the enemy. Alert and ready
but not looking up, for this is where the ****** is,
waiting, watching, ready right now.
Levelling his gun, he takes careful aim.
The Aussies swim into focus in his x10 telescopic sights.
Soon it is over as two fall dead, their comrades fleeing
as the Nippon terror strikes,
for he is the ****** amongst Japan’s best,
taking his war to the enemy.
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 8:01 AM UTC
The chaos of my childhood haunts me.
Daddy's fist, mommy's ****** broken nose, streamers of blood, lawnmower catching on fire and the firemen trying to cop a feel of my mother, mommy yelling, me getting kicked out of pop's house, living nowhere for awhile, dumpsters, stumbling drunk into an old sewer, sleeping on **** ******* in my sleep, waking up smelling stale like ammonia, car accident, fighting the guy who hit us because he called Josey a ***** pop slamming me into the refrigerator, me knocking him unconscious, levelling a knife on him once, fighting everybody, feeling like life was a fight, like i couldn't trust nobody. Even my new friends, brought beef to my house, a kid brought him and a whole bunch of other shaved-head ***** over in a jeep. I came outside with a butcher knife.
now i've got this flock inside of me,
because whenever I feel someone talking ****
i just want to fight,
just want to react.
I hold all the good things inside of me
deep within,
even the little lambs
with pink, innocent lips
who are suckling and hungry for the thing i was really missing:
love.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 1:09 PM UTC
Heavy was the globe, until the glove hit
Found himself entangled in a handlebar flip
Iron in the taste, ****** waste
Continuum drawn back on a meaningless quip
Unsteady footing reminiscent of preschool days, snorting paste
Zebra striped mockery, paid off the books; his vision’s been maced
Early end to prolonged exposure, he tries to bait
Steady eyed denial approaches with haste
The monetarily gorged rule keeper entangles in debate
Opponent grows weary appearing irate
He recalls the words in a blank cheque written by a weak frame
A levelling blow leaves his opponent in a blank state
World weary and star struck to blame
All in pursuit of everlasting fame
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 3:32 AM UTC
I know my steps are no more
the infinite wisdom of the masses has become
the hideout of the scoundrel
equality is the mirage of modern times
it has deprived of dignity
all personality and original thought
even to the humble
simple tasted elevated soul
since modern man entered the idea
modern blasphemy
of equality
nothing but mediocrity
flies atop purchasing corpses
of the living souls
to admire a great man you must first
belong to the unique members of humble
thought
a subtle mechanism of the mind
where awe and emotion still exist
but no
says thee equal man
you cannot enter the room
first you must (horrible word)
decline your taste and bent for
exquisite feelings and a sense of beauty
force has left the room
instead we have complaints
and a total lack of confidence in self
in adventure
and the legitimate claim
to own your life
suicide has become a crime
one of the sikness of deranged mind
it is a right
I do not belong to this world
rather to solitude
an american crime
Oh evil and murderous incantation
in nature we seek solace from the homogeneous man
civilised murdering machine
my artificiality claims the ultimate prize
in decadence and sanctity
no more shall the ruins of judgements past
will assail me
the levelling field and the love of thunder
behaviour of evil deeds shall flourish
and man standing bent on the greyish mud
will perpetually love his trap
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 6:43 AM UTC
It was the cheap Polish coal
Sweeping down from chimney and slate,
Staining windows, levelling off
At doors, settling on walks
Where evidence showed me hurrying
To my bed-sitting room
In prints of snow and soot.
The roses dipped,
Foxgloves closed
Against the odour.
It was the kitchen.
Tomatoes, carrots, onions
Slicing vaporous air hanging
Veil-like on dark windows.
I coughed.
Too many cigarettes?
My nose bled.
I pulled out a hankie
And coughed again.
When I removed my coat
My eyes were red.
You'd notice.
Perhaps it was a combination .
You knew my eyes.
Weeks are still less tolerable.
Smoke, soot, salads,
Which really doesn't matter,
Strangely mix, tossing off our years.
Cheap Polish coal. **** cheap Polish coal.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
Locked up in a sealed, squat jar
Levelling out the fragile playing fields
Which separate our stupid lives from your pre-natal bliss,
I gazed upon you in constant amazement,
As your watered and eager soul shook against the thick glass.
In the comfort of a forgotten cupboard,
You peer out daily through your half-shut pink eyes,
Watching the cogs of our legs grind up and down stairwells,
Oiled by fear and glistening in blind faith.
And, still, you make the glass rock and tilt with your Buddha laughs!
Quite a charming crew, you had there!
Magical bones and limp lizards
(Amongst other players) gathered together for science’s sake,
Only to be glimpsed at briefly in-between breaks.
Kids came and went, things were built - you never changed.
It was better that you never tasted life’s lost lustre.
Had you past through the wet, wobbly womb,
Only a few options would have awaited you –
Pet, chop suey or a pitiful pawn on Squealer’s chessboard.
You’re too sweet for all of that – stay bottled up.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
Crumbling Victorian concrete falls to the ground.
The crunch of rubble, levelling histories to dust.
All this is “progress”, “a bright opportunity” and “good for the economy”.
Yeah, but for who?
Those who live there? The communities forged from years of migration?
Those who take pride in the shape and feel of their own unique milieu?
It seems, no.
Look closer and you’ll find a hidden clue - the quietly mouthed magic word: “apartments”.
It won’t be long before a weekly shop will need a pay-day loan.
Or the late night fish supply shop turns into a swishy niche café.
WINZ offices relocating to where its denizens have been priced off to.
Meanwhile the newly whiter-than-whitewash feel of our once beloved suburbs,
present themselves as bastions of modernity and “progress”.
What lies in the rubble is not just dust, it’s the debris of pākehā civility.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:36 PM UTC
The year that’s passed:
a watershed year,
a milestone year,
a rebirthed-via-fire kind of year.
A peeling of layers year,
a levelling year—
with flaws and faults,
an emotions-on-full kind of year.
A year of intensity,
a year of grief.
A down-on-my-knees
praying for peace kind of year.
A rebuilding year,
a learning year.
An emotional-resilience-required
kind of year.
This is the year
that it’s all been here.
In fullness, rawness, a
real, genuine kind of year.
Let the lessons be learned
for the next and the brighter year.
Let some laughter echo
into the lighter year.
Let us care for each other
to meet this with love, not fear.
Happy New Year, whether you’re far or near.
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 5:29 AM UTC
Death knocks at all doors
one way or another
Lurking in the shadows
waiting to pounce
The great levelling
of pride
Yes death remains
even after the dead are buried.
Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 7:08 PM UTC
you know when you're
so drunk
that you find it so
hard to find the cursor arrow
because everything is doubled?
**** i'm finding it hard
finding that arrow; i think i lost
my wallet too;
hey mouse! fill me in...
mouse! transform into a mole!
hey! **** i'm seeing double
and, by the time i catch that cursor
i'll have your north exacted
on demand as Syrians levelling Germany;
ha ha, found it,
now i'm ready to re-coordinate again.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 12:47 AM UTC
I wish I had an arrow to befriend
A slender beauty with veinlets etched
in gold
In which tales flowed
of battles unresolved— songs of wars
that it had never fought
Bearing a blade forged from flames
envied by the crescent that rips its way
through the dark
I would choose it out the nameless others
patient in the quiver
and show it off to the winds
Watch the sly sun kiss it’s carvings
her nimble fingers swirling about
—it’s rich purple sepals
and their unwavering grace
I would let it touch the worn-out bow
that, voiceless, had words to scream
in vales, and in dens
levelling its fletching with the callous string
I would pull
— oh, moors ahed, and moors behind
moors beneath, and all inside—
It’s unblemished tip smirking up the yonder
Slaying all voids in the way
— oh, born an icy weapon
unborn still
I wish I had an arrow to befriend
I would let free the trapped string
impatient, always, to flea
and watch the moon lurking beneath the day
Watch him brutal,
— watch him cold
As if expecting lightening to
sprout out of my eyes
Utter a silent curse I would
Knowing I could not add to his bruises
I would feel a star burning
by the edge of my eye
My bird soaring towards its doom
and into the moors,
I would sublime
—
I close my eyes against the sun
grasping
for the bright of my blood
that lurks, lurks
beneath the shadows
of my gaze—
grasping,
and grasping still—
I wish I had an arrow to befriend
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 4:31 AM UTC
The jumbled froth of life
A frayed tapestry of ruin
Made sodden by the rain
Concealing a malignant thought
Those ancient instincts
Become my own tormentor
Filled with the reek of forests in decay
Merging dark in the webbed greasy darkness
Singing for the road
These levelling times
A brainless mechanical automation of jangling discord
Within the silt of memories
liquidated to the transitory currency of destruction
A drowsy chaos of reasoned passions
written on the passing wave
Dawn - hints at the shape of things - flexes
Through the struggles of our ancestors
Forever haunting the abbreviated memory of flesh
In our braided stream of citizenry
We are all the dead and dying..
Gypsy
Aug 21, 2023
Aug 21, 2023 at 8:38 PM UTC
Somedays I wrote words
but letters slipped away
lost beyond my grip
reaching and fetching
Somedays I wrote words
then shoved them away
uncased under the bed
searching and vexing
Somedays I wrote words
letting emotions prevail
as the cord strangled
levelling and curling
Somedays I wrote words
presented with numbers
joints of joy and peace
trespassing and pleading
Somedays I wrote words
as a moniker hiding phases
a face on my lost arms
materialising, internalising
Somedays I wrote words
of a deep reflective past
and a sickening existence
passing days, pressing mazes
Today I don't want to hide
neither compartmentalise
nor capitalise the future
It's all the now, the me
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 5:06 PM UTC
you only partake in the centenary once, better make the most of it! it’s only a grandmother’s worth of care, queen celebratory and a cup-cake!
the philosophical basis is, ideally, and classically
a height or width outside of space and time...
but as jesus said, and this is seriously being
revised and rekindled, given unto
space and time a sexuality -
this primitive stance was about standing outside
sexuality, pairing or patent,
there can never be a monotheism,
a duo-theism i agree too...
a woman's god will never appeal to man...
a man's god will never appeal to woman...
then, what, the, **** is, going, on?!
oh right... i can rub one rock of flit against
another to make a fire... now some wise-guy
created money so that i can write at leisure and write
what i've written now with ease and a lack of morals
(someone is bound to hammer in a nail)...
both mortals and immortals were brought down
onto insanity's levelling as altogether curious without
a democratic response adequate for this zoo...
i know my futility, like an aerobic agility on the matter -
framework: gymnastics;
whatever literary escapade... i still only eat, **** repeat;
we really did **** someone off prior to this
to have to endure this.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
walking back from
an off-license,
plucked myself a bunch
of rowan...
and reimagined myself
as a child,
rolling metal pellets into
my mouth
from the awkward
levelling of my
communist balcony...
now as i drink this
whiskey...
and throw a few rowan
"pellets" down my gob...
remembering
that grown ups used
to call them: poison berries...
**** the sparrows didn't
die from plucking them!
let's find out and see
what the effects of rowan is
like, not being firstly chewed,
but gulped down...
like a sparrow might.
trans-categorical odes:
O, old rose - tell me of you,
and of me!
why are your petals in the infant
stage considered
a delicacy in persia and among
the turks...
while your mature buds,
your fruits only fit for sparrows
and not man?
who deems them to be poison?
****
the amount of **** i've drank...
a little bit of "supposed"
poison can't actually hurt...
and if it does?
thumbs up!
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 5:53 PM UTC
Fear silence
Murmuring within
Soul in deep soil
Levelling sorrow
Heart beats
uneven Pumping
Accumulation n flow
Flowers bloomingly
Withering mind turmoil
Turtling fear silencing sleep
Limitations of body n soul
Streams of stretching repulsion
Greedy mind
Quenching drop
Getting red
...
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 12:05 AM UTC
Winters crushing silence, Lacoste’s new dawn
Art all consuming through empathic suave
And evocative frontiers
Lacoste in love with crafts enlightened beacon
Irregular lines devolve from medieval skeletal relics
Trompe-l'œil beggars ones belief
Windows framed empty
The eye drawn to its historical tone
A sweeping brush strokes the virginal canvas
Golden colours materialise within ones conceptional dream
A spatial aura now raked on pastoral hues
Sparten skies embodies synonymous revelations
Roberts chiselled forms soar out of soft stones erosion
Grains becomes a wash with the cream of gold
Flowers lay wanton to the stony mural
Echoing within each cranial abyss
Ambience sings to the wavering hand
Sprouting wings on the back of birds in song
Luberon’s wide shoulders cradles a fire from Martha's bellows
Beguiling the light illuminates each hillside easel
Materials cut from the heart of Cécile
Mounted on heady heights
Engages empowerment in nuptial bonding
Transitioning to unearth the wearer
Gaby finds his source in prehistory
Rumbling tractors stitching together the whispering landscape
Everts clay forms upon the Noahs ark prepare for the coming art uprising
Compatriote born of the land, immortalised in clay
Hérold crystallized forms evoke surreal echoes
Playing the open gambit of Le Sade agape
Empowering the village through their art
Artists of Lacoste forge an oeuvreal village from the jagged walls
Artsploitation a road to ones soul
Artspronouciation reaching the road
Art a levelling climate settles the crowd
Amity conjuring future artisan fingers
The nesting atelier
Fledglings prepare to dip a toe
Stretching wings in mind, body and soul
Freeing spirits of old
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 6:36 AM UTC
sometimes clear as water
light as a feather
the spirit moves within all space
fused and welded
wedded seamless
without ripples
without restriction
a fluid poured out
found its levelling
sometimes with unseen wings
as natural as air
air lighter than a feather
clearer than ice.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 10:33 AM UTC