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  • Writer's pictureAMo

On Slate

Updated: Nov 27, 2018

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


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


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.


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