The Violent Red
The Violent Red
The violent Red is a powerful mantra.
It forces you to forget but
you remember. The violent Red is a
knife that cuts mandarins open
but the smell of raw meats
oozes. The violent Red is a pair of
hands that strangles you to death
then makes an epitaph for you.
The violent Red is bottles of wine
made of blood — only,
the blood of bleeding sunflowers
dazzled by the sunlight. The violent Red is
an espresso, short and intense, like a
hippo that crushes your head with a kick
or a stamp. The violent Red is a self-burning
metasequoia blaming its deciduous leaves:
how violent could a leaf be to fall away from me?
The violent Red is the smell of the sun in
your clothes, the smell of ash, the smell of dust.
The violent Red is an icemaker
turning every flow into an ice cube.
The violent Red is an enlarging ice cube.
Could there be an ice crack?
Let there be an ice fall.