The Poem That Will Fuck You Up

...
speaks of the flight of speech and of sound
of the sea
and of rivers
when the waters soak pearls and bullions and spread
across tides

persimmons
and dried apricots

that rend life off the lives of trees.

It speaks of faces.

It speaks of the honey that sweetens your lips
of spices delightful and of flesh.

Of the sound of books at night
with page corners folded, torn
by violent souls and cries
in rapture of martyrdom and hate.

It speaks of Euripides,
of cold chromium-plated handcuffs.

It speaks of signs of fire that rip the skies
that the skies light up that light up
the atom that the atom incinerates
and of art and of fire and of ash
of flowers and corpses underneath crystal towers,
of the slow craft of Lotus-Eaters, of prophecies.

It speaks of oracles.

I let the days crumble all the picture frames
with their deformed faces and their naked bodies
in messages ablaze of silk and shadow
and I climbed to the mountaintops, and on crosses
rested weary birds, traveller white crows
of memories, their wings spread
pointing east to the last character of the last page.

It speaks of synecdoche in the space of a desert.
It speaks of the horrifying scream of the shattering roots of trees,
of the wind howling and of the pages of the book
of never-ending legends.

It speaks of syntax.

In its margins shimmer small handwritten signs
of nocturnal frights and their reflections.

And their images as flames.