Tuesday, February 8, 2011

The Box

Intelligence goes in one side,
and nothing comes out the other.

Ringed in golden frogs whose eyes
are tiny, actually functioning worlds
whose tiny onces

nok ban du

the great kohl
hinges fly
the only sky
is where the artifice
is laid back across
our pupillion

pupil + pavillion = glass ram's hirn
a special medallion that fiction put in the chest

the eethe plug
their temples are pierce by the lens
but the pelvises go on munching
up the foam

down come the cubes
here in the communal bloc

its mechanical filter tongue
pre-possess the eggs
until they start in the dark

with nothing but sunshine
vast human-ish sounding
beings whose masks are lavender cloud-like

the cubes are stored among the momentary
opacities between the counter phase
and whole sections of sky can be moved
copied or grafted

thick plates of womb-stall
implanted to the alien plain

peat womb and
skirn carch

the silver shadow
steps out from an egg
of green lightning
to pull open the controls
from the air

the only instruments visible
are the small cascades of blinking
or momentary obsidian panpipes
which trail out
variously from the temple area
of the head

but it could be a video production
or farther under the algae