THE SEIGE OF FULDORK FORT

THE SIEGE OF FULDORK FORT 

'Appraisal to footprints erasing mud, 
Orchestrating strings amongst muted winds, 
The flints of rubble entirely forgotten 
Or the basis of which masterpieces exercise. 

The insolodous cavity of an archer, 
His belief in flesh, the quill of history, 
Disguised through sequences of tabs in blood, 
Encompassing her like cloth bubbles, a worn out press.'
-Fixatory Decompositions, Breft, Ch XII, Pg.332

THE SIEGE OF FULDORK FORT 

ANTICIPATORY PEACE 
Anticipatory peace 

THE STATUE INGRAINING 
The statue ingraining 
The future as a child who died
Witness the bullet of sword 
Open rises, rhythm within bone 
A fragment of lyrical magic in a worn God turning 
The Stupidity 
Drudge, or The Verge of Torture 
Tick of Pillows 
Ignore the drowsiness sky 
The Valley, 
Fear as a self-declared soldier 

ANTICIPATORY PEACE 

Anticipatory peace 

I PACE FORTH FROM DESCENT 
TO GRAPPLE THE ABYSS, 
TO RETURN AS ASCENT 
TO THE EDGE OF BLISS. 
VOIDS ARE TO REMINISCE 
ON THE SIMPLICITY OF A BLUEPRINT: 
DISCERNING FORGERY, 
YOUR TIMELESS NECESSITY. 

THE STATUE INGRAINING 

The statue ingraining 

A child passing by absorbs the eye 
Of a bird, overseeing the compass 
Of instinctual hordes prevailing as convex marches, 
Glancing away in gratitude, the adored debt 
Of sleepless sieges, nocturnal affairs, never reducing themselves
To the personal discovery of amnesiac waves of seduction
Relapsing from the limestone tsunami. 

Many men are shackles of cheap harbours, 
A shore of jellified rock, convulsing slaves, 
Whom rectify in a dead-glance brood 
A grain to harden, embodying the eves. 
A stare to stretch by the law of self-reduction, 
Idle prophets embark to drown on journeys 
Which return you from whence you passed by. 

The future as a child who died 

The future as a child who died
Is a pumping fountain of exotic dependence.

The autonomous ravination of robotic interjections
Are made duty since they're the mind's reflections. 
Today will always possess the same feeling as tomorrow 
Which is today, thus soldiers lose themselves to sea, 
Spitting foam from the depths of an endless fee. 

Why sacrifice the peace of eternity
For the impetuous heart of brevity, 
A child's belief unpruned, thus anxiety? 

The future as a child who died
Is an impedance of changes untied. 

Witness the Bullet of Sword 

Witness the bullet in innocence
Made by man to have sense, 
Witness the bullet foresee patience
In it's revelatory plight of suspense, 
An engineered vanity carves death shapelessness. 
A vibration incarnated violet heaves the cosmic drama. 

Witness the bullet at breath of thought, 
Histories resuscitated in glass-slit masts 
Level-headed with unforgiving adrenaline, 
The ever-present guide of childhood 
Impoverishly sucking your skull; 
I witness the overlapping blood
Coating a tablet of memory disguised as a twin, 
Resting on the ribs of a dagger 
Where the mind's conscious birth is a ripple 
Against the shores which seem to pull you closer. 
Sharp degrees channel from the nipple; 
An artificially official sense is a child raised 
In the virgin brutality of chaos, 
Redundancy despised as it's praised, 
Lead by it's good as malice; 
Reason is a voice which doesn't sing 
She re-examines you in the corner, 
A corner possessing patterns equalling
The inevitability of reflecting eternity -
Revating samples of power
In the suicide of liberty. 
The negated lip tightened to a sore 
Serves pulp against the illusory shore. 

Witness the bullet seize-up earthquakes. 
It's the sunrise unmet due to an assurance 
Of warmth in the unsafeness of night with mother, 
The pearl now admired in retrospect 
(With this martyr go beyond the futility of death
And the reconstructed life of mannerisms) 
Of the result I think I must know. 
Witness the bullet thaw within cardboard, 
Reconciling with the immediate horror of boredom. 
A petal lapses over the pitch of Sun, 
A patch of blindness cheapens discourse of the mind. 
The agency rambles over a masted copout. 

Witness the bullet devour itself
In the bleak nakedness of secrecy
Seize the fear correlating with existence, 
A mindset submerged in endless scenes
Of childhood remembering. 
In a flash I embody my reaction to you. 

Witness the bullet as memory 
Preparing proportions of it's copies 
For the nimble frames of reality, 
Disguising itself as arbitrary, an aesthetic of acceptance.
We hurdle in shocks deflating incessantly.

Witness the bullet as mineral 
Revolving in the ladder's elements binding 
A pearl now admired in bridges of stone; 
It's size of which you can never imagine. 
Am I posterity returning the child 
To it's state of sensitive maturity, a ribosmic guillotine, 
Sprouted from the remnants of respect
Gained from the barrier issuing replies? 
The will of a cane to coil through a centre.

Witness the bullet of sword
Weaving the bullet of a baby's throat. 

Witness the bullet of sword 
Digress from it's series of present enchantments 
And return to the virginal statue, 
Bowing to a prominence of spontaneous recordings. 
We travel as one in loneliness
Sharped in a shapeless degree
To a congregation of void, 
The battle of distillation which breeds
In incomprehensible spouts, 
Dissolution of currency, the soul's exchange 
To certify the unknown, 
Creating your legend anew.
Whatever it means to be a poet. 


Open rises, rhythm within bone 

The steeples of flesh pumping with blood
Press themselves against a plush throat of wind, 
The reminiscence of sound alights 
An image of a chest a-blaze in space, 
The space your feet discover in each step. 

Losing myself in a stupor of spirals...
Undulating chipped frames curdle
And thaw themselves to golden puddles, 
A taste faintly orphaned on the tongue; 
The enemies jaw of intellectual drunkenness clasps.
As if the brain, their capsule of thought, 
Should be decorated exclusively creative: 
Ultimately, they're the hairs of subterranean grass
Who'll become recent decay of future activity 
As well as the fables setting in my skin and stone, 
The open plain of rhythms rising within bone. 


A fragment of lyrical magic in a worn God turning 

Deeming magic through praise upon a worn God
I take first in pinches the eternal bond 
Which embellishing sheds titanium flakes 
(If my mouth was present to dispense!) 
On superficiality once denounced the relative random.
Light leaks through the necessary wounds of stardom, 
An incessancy of posthumous ravishing. 
Anyway, away now, apologies to the frame 
Constructed by an apprentice, above the staircase starving, 
Above the lock of traditionalism, 
A tight cage easy to observe. 

No desire to be formulated or exhaled, 
I'll perform a recital for you in sentences; 
The adorations which you fashioned upon me 
Were in truth the reflection of yourself 
As you beheld me, existing in the disbelief of magic. 
You became existing through your own language. 
The sage in a camouflage of matter
Is an uneven edge woven in futility, 
The genius' guarantee of their own heartbeat, 
A thrusted gravity buried in a glance of soil. 
A fragment of lyrical magic in a worn God turning. 


The Stupidity 

And all the man who forges history is try and forget; 
Taking his resources from an immutable guilt. 
The authority strikes down as love. 
The poet creates a future through revarnishing past. 
The stupidity of badger culling 
And experimental degrees masking tomorrow 
Donate their chance of lief to you. 
Made moronic through the undiscovered irony 
Emasculation's are lost inside their own past. 
Why is their innocence molested and ravished, 
Exploited through fear disguised as anger? 
Past beyond the limits of love known in childhood. 


Drudge, or The Verge of Torture

I document kamikaze tunings, the littering wind, 
Like God or a surgeon 
I revive intricacies in a template, 
Casting natural remedy for an eon, 
Equating a process of thought to find 
Myself dwelling in a higher place -a returning fate. 

Do not question the depth of a molecule. 
We are divinity, the reflection of irony 
A thought thoughtless of ideas to come, 
A void-less void, observing it's own display. 
Is this the only rule? 
if so, let me fade endlessly in the deaths of Autumn. 

Limbo is the hidden energy of existence, 
It is potentiality which serves and sustains. 
Formlessly the stitcher for a temple of acorns, patterns manifest art. 
Is action necessary if being is the limbo of contemplations? 
Glancing back in someone's propositional pathways of past tense, 
I begin to believe it's this irritation the mind gnaws upon in the heart. 


Tick of Pillows 

Axes no longer crave the wood shavings of time 
Or the white splinters raving in the scalp, 
The tick of pillows reverses his bite 
And submerges the sky beyond the ancient palp, 
Epithelial clouds seed to leathery sacs of lime, 
Like motionless gypsies, we travel in carvings of our height. 

Forcing myself blind in a face of light, 
I return nowhere, retracing anagrams in sight.


Ignore the drowsiness sky

Tuning to a fate which rewires the screen 
I hurl straight through the roulette of clouds 
Deflating in sticky layers over a chandelier of sap, 
A lid whose kiss is a reformation of solitude
Assures birth -starry mills exhausting blackness
Recreate the sound of blinking guillotines. 

Understanding some succumb before arrival, 
I smuggle my love in a gamble. 
I electrify an asylum through family memories, 
Stumbling below the lights I contrive.
I deport avenues of distinct disgust
Returning under the spell of immutable chimes. 
Wandering amidst wind, voices show you their dance. 

As locks crunch to vines and knots 
The sky peels, answering matter to my destiny. 
The thin palate casting tints of sight
Dissolves to a mere copy of the concaving shield. 
The shedding of skin is synonymous with colour emasculation. 
Aesthetic of misanthropic shade for a garden portrait. 

Exposing itself crescently on a dagger
Atomic repulsion revolves on display. 
Sacrificing my heart to a chest in space, 
With a fresh perpetuity of droplets, 
Reviling courage within disease, 
I make my place, a result still to foresee - 
An end always unknown to me. 


The Valley, 

A funnel of black revolving. 
Cascaded barrels not yet promised 
Worship themselves in a camera's fist, 
Lighting dusk charades in oil dissolving. 

An ever breathing vein of white. 
Souls who can't read catch a beam or two, 
Breathless auditoriums of light 
Rage softly on the grass in spheres of dew. 

Within a step we are lost, 
The heart conceals it's own immense 
Ignition, sparking it's own existence 
Within the step you abandon most. 

Breathless auditoriums of light 
Rage softly on the grass in spheres of dew. 


The fear of a self-declared soldier 

There's so many things one misses when crafting themselves... 
Will it all end in a blackness I created? 
Will we revert back to play this game of bloodshed again? 
Am I the divine evil? - 
If so, within itself, the divinity of good?