Showing posts with label Steven Fortune. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Steven Fortune. Show all posts

Sunday, September 15, 2019

Steven Fortune writes

OCARINA MEDLEY 

(Inspired by the Legend of Zelda: Ocarina Of Time video game)


I. The Forest Temple


Negotiating vertigo architecture
in a tangled hotel of undead hosts
I stumble and wonder if I'm
simply sleeping in a side-effect
of what the Village Elder called
being alive


We never knew the word in the wax
museum hamlet of our youth
or the meaning of what happened to
the Elder...a meaning
I could not define for you
or comprehend for myself
as I set out for his pioneering
final wish


Childhood sleep painted no portraits
of a revolutionary field trip
Fate talked me into a vow of silence
I could not defy until the meaning
of your goodbye gift caught up
with the trot of my growth


The meaning
you could not define for me


Greener than the grass stains
on the splinter orphanage of my extremities
was I - the son of History -
in the ways and purposes of human skin
I would break from these unholy
halls of lurking art
disassemble all the royal blocks
sealing their ambition
and appeal to the Goddesses
for a writing off of this as a practice run
all for one sliver of vacation from this destiny
to learn the feeling of your fingertips
on the day I crossed the glorified
cliche of a bridge
for the paradox I thought
would drop me off with your gift
still flesh-warm and abstract
in my unprecedented hands


II. The Fire Temple


A childhood knack for rock gardening
was skewed into curled facade of chagrin
when acquaintance was made with a tribe
whose babies are raised on literal pebbles

(Rocks in the belly are sumo ambrosia
Cocoa and fruit are for artists)

Boulder entrees in a brainwashed beast's
volcanic vicinity humbled them from
poor choice of rival to diffident
prisoners of a war taken by tampered time
for a personified hog ride


Their penchant for dancing and brotherhood
euphemised the magnitude of my calling
from chosen to willing


The itch of their fabric was made bearable
when the molten necessity of their beatified
ruby's stolen nobility agonized me with
heat-seeking chicanes of insistent back-drafts
and door-painted mouse traps glaring
triumphantly from the come-hither perspective
of motion-fused hallways ignited


The gleam of their gauntlets implanted
a sumo invective in my demolition of
vindictive cells shushing brethren
who braved the red lake's rock causeways
for the release of their rambunctious captain


I coveted this summit's infernal virus
to thaw out the famine
unleashed by a tyrant's spite


The almighty ruby can dance on my chest
in the shrug of an integral bonus


III. A Night In The Water Temple


'When water fills the lake,
shoot for the morning light.'


Who's unearthly pen of purpose
spiked the medicinal lingo of
my life's mission statement with
the sweet calligraphy of a
redeemer's destiny


On what grounds of anticlimactic
credentials was I plucked from
the frozen context of forest green ignorance
and assigned to this twitchy box of a bath house
and its drowned doors spiteful currents
self-appointed damsels and
sea dweller duds


This I ponder as a hero
pampers his beleaguered feet
beneath the towel of an opportune torch
and inquires of his whimsical pet pearl
why an instrument of heaven's orchestra
could not compose a path to a shoehorn


With everyday gadgets of the gods
he is coming for my heart
and I will beat him with it
till the destiny of a redeemer wraps
its existence around the black dimensions
of my inferiority and makes
for the morning light

Steven Fortune writes

VANILLA BOY
 

Defining me
is like spelling out
a hundred-letter word
Essence of existence seized
in a vowel-less commute
through a dreamless sleep
between the suns
of definition and identity
Applications of passivity
become of me then bail
on potential to become me
Nothing here to see
say the signature police
Move along evolving as you were
Vicissitude's aloof
to the morose settlement
cited only in a mime around
the fringes of inclusion's
stunned recess
Outspokenness seduces
in its transparent slip of tongues
Intellectual arousal cowers
under impotence of
aural relevance
Praying to the ghost of
Helen Keller for a shadow
based influence
I resent my senses
on the basis of
their comfort on a fence
Why am I denied
essential evidence?
What nuances seal
the appeal of pretense?
I can lay no claim to tragedy
I'm too preoccupied
with verbal travesties
and inclinations of Van Gogh's spite
towards awarded senses
I'm inclined to take my eyes first
like an inconveniently
enlightened Oedipus
or have them taken from me
by a bastard boy
keen to my attempts
at nurturing to health
the wrongings of divine right
Gloucestershire sauce
imprints a bitter stain
on my incessant appetite
for gluttonous libations
of assured affirmations
Oedipus -- Nykolai Aleksander

Saturday, May 18, 2019

Steven Fortune writes


HATSHEPSUT

Cataclysm of recalcitrance
and aquiline charisma
the God daughter
wore the archetypal flesh
flower of deific Amun's
affidavit seed
never ceasing to reformulate
the framework of whatever
raiment glued the smoke of
fertile Punt frankincense
to her aromatic body
Her perfumed aura
shielded the fumes of new
trails branded into nature's
overgrown gardens
Fumes that would be replicated
were she granted access to our
odiously caricatured bearded lady
An odor in the kingdom
that hosted the nativity of queendom
for the womb that carried
the enlightenment of Sirius
A balance of empyreal ascension
and the Moon's hammer of adhesion
like the obelisk that poked her path
to heaven into the inflated firmament
A balance unyielding enough
to have the sacred literati hearing nothing
of the unheard-of flammation of
the common loins ignited by
the feel of golden breasts
And when she took her soul and smells
to the gardens of Amun
it's as if a people were awakened
from an equilibrium hypnosis
Born-again conservatives impaled
her existence on misshaping chisels
of an order compromised
But the walling of her obelisk
was history's retort
Her lineage-intoxicated stepson's
censorship defected to
the aim of preservation
long enough for terminology
to christen her a queen
Long enough to suture
the chronology of an epochal
matriarch of a tomorrow that ran
from the moon when seduced
and runs from the flares of a Sun
made resentful by conversion to
alternative worship

Tuesday, April 16, 2019

Steven Fortune writes


MARCH OF THE MEMORIES

March of the memories
whipped into an accelerated
recycling of realization by
slave-driving clock hands
slowed by embitterment over
the mission of auditing voids
of purpose and consequent boredom
Designs on a hastening of
a ghost day's malaise by the draft
manufactured in this arrangement
The errands of pertinent yesterday
latch onto the begrudging caravan
Paint it with an existential
tramp's presence if you can
as it outruns undead travails
on judicious rails spiked with
conscientious calendars
What were once aspirations
are now trivia answers
as the medium encroaches on
the message with a business
proposition of existence
for existence's sake
-- Christoph Niemann