Flesh to ash, purification
by fire, written in bone, written
in smoke, before it’s broken, you’d
better work it out. Any more

denying what you’re trying not
to shout will only occasion
its pouring forth, that phrase whose words
are his hidden names for bitter

things not worth your venerating
or mentioning here. Syllables
bursting with curses and flaming
tongues untamed by purer air, crude

crepuscular eructations
of foulest breath unafraid to

shame ears which ignore translations
of another era’s ancient
oracular warnings. Dark truths
which hit so much harder, hurt far

more and for longer, than stones, hot
coals, mosaic tessellations
desecrated only to be
thrown by sick heretics at worse

sinners for being so bold, shunned
for competing with their antics.
No, your theatrics are passion
smouldering to panic a nude

audience of spirits, visions,
formerly clothed in flesh which, through

your mouth’s brazen vessel, spills in
roaring torrents now. Such louder
forces than sound can manage, do
any justice defining, hoarse

afterlife voices deafening
in their damning revelation
of things you’ve seen already but
don’t yet want others to suffer.

Not if, by sanctification,
prophets meant wasting time in some
way other than raising demons
for no good reason but to put

god in his place after making
you face what heart within heat wounds.