buboletheia

(the excellent clock of wonderful knowledge)

there are nine enormous tanks
arranged in a circle on the square
surrounding a deep but round-bottomed
pit lit only by an angular stave
fitted firmly in the mouth
of a gargoyle which perches on its edge

each tank is meegeleverd
with its own special fluid
and the huge indeterminate owl
that breathes it

the university dark diving tanks
spill hoses and cables to wonder
separate the personal and the individual teams
masque(s) and capulets (our family)
over tybalt's weird owls (the excellent clock)
(but weird) we the "roman machine people"
have seen over and through
their strange hallucinating graves
oh they feel stiff as bound sticks
in their descriptive communities

but in the pit
live snake orgies
of shakespearean colour(s)

glosses of clock
in the land from torso
our machine elf shelf for
they will not render down
the great gates
to rid their difference
of madness
and they will certainly never make
plain
the madness itself
for what is ever submerged
is coming ashore

and i am no more hostile
than the cup
of what universe for
what might any mask hold
of a fluid
and no more a stranger
than the music
of obscurity turned
kharactere

we trace out the small twisting lines
but in the landscape
how admit the wood
a mythic contour to muteness

we are those far-future
hermogenist kretins
urging on urns
into urns
poeticity smiles
whiles it grumbles
to itself

the ourobouros
is also a halo (a lemniscate)
over conjoined twins
or rotary owl tank
omphalosnakes

giant owls are snoring
under their own special fluids
and divers swim down
under the icons
the loins of the loins
of the loins of lotus-
aardvark-mantises
in order to run their bare fingers
between the thick
and rigid quills
next to the singing skin

skin that communicates
in active textures
of ruminating
gooseflesh

and each diver gasps
when any owl opens
its great and cyclopedian eye
the curious eye of mercutio
lined
with beetle browsers

no nous
no noose
but writing performed
(as a snake to a breathing cable)
poeticity exists beyond
and without us
and never said

by owls


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