Elidir’s unmade face
floats, upturned
in the lake -
the body is water,
glass-like, land-filled.
The legs drive blood
by pulsing tunnels,
by the throat,
by rhybudd and perygl
on that dizzy incline, to the source
- Cirith Ungol - blackest box -
and a once-king of the Castle’s
gaping apertures
undersee
Slate, like a morning’s pristine snow,
inviting disruption.
The walls and faces amplify
tiny hubrises, voices etched
by shards on fissile planes
for stylus-eyes to track
as vinyl grooves,
each a byte’s release
of odourless, colourless frequency -
unread memories.
The spoil-heaps’ tossed records
pregnant with surround-sound
hiss, clack and split fidelity
sound around
voids
like speakers blown.
The needle picks out veins
- cracks - stops -
avant logics in minerals,
quarrymen’s humour, climbers’ chalk -
piezoelectric sparks
ignited by gravity
on a rainbow.
The blood-filled black box
is a winding tower,
drawing oxygen,
bringing up rust.
