From Specialise in the impossible and meaning

What we need are more people who specialize in the impossible,
running backwards towards the moon, howling down that pale suspended
moon. What we need are more people who will take a platform on a milk
crate in speaker's corner and show the world the red-whites of their
eyes and nosebleed their filthy lust onto cracked pavements. If you ask
me questions designed to reveal if I have any delusion, I would ask you
what is the difference between delusion and illusion. Oh grinding feet,
and sallow and clumsy intoxication kills and there you all are,
standing in the consensual illusion of your reality. Through this
weeping chaos emerges my own ghost, the unconscious desire that haunts
and itches every waking slice of time.

Specialize in the impossibly impossible, come and drink from the bitter
cup, opioid orgasm, lager lust. Where is salvation now? Surprise me,
make me feel good about something. Let me wake up one day with a
craving for days, for years. Let us walk together through the village,
you the faith-healer, me the faithless and in a smoke filled hut chant
some incantations, do something impossible, cure me.

Specialise in the impossible, believe it possible, let go of all those
wasted years. The people are dead now, but I am alive, defy convention,
keep me alive. Did I ever tell you I needed you. That I set you apart
for an impossible task? Do you trust yourself with such fragile a
relic, such precious a charge? Do you know me? Do you care?

This again is not poetry.
This is revelation

Poet descends addicted, into the hush.
Scientist watches and spits into a test-tube.
Jude starts doubling over, looking towards a far off parapet.
Seven strangers one by one are falling from the parapet, each dying on
impact.
An eighth stranger enters the arena.
The scientist puts his strong hand over the mouth of the poet.
And shows jude the vision of the parapet so she cannot trust.
Slowly the poet struggles free from the grasp of the scientist
The poet trusts the eighth stranger.
The eighth stranger dies by falling from an even higher parapet.
The poet breaks down and cries.
The scientist carries jude through her life and turns her head away
from pain
A ninth stranger enters the arena
The scientist hands over the broken body of the poet
And covers the eyes of jude so she cannot see the
Despite having gag removed, the poet is too weary to speak
Tired of bruises and disappointment, jude remembers what she cannot
see.
The scientist and jude are not able to trust
So destiny was in the hands of the wounded poet who is being cared for
by a new stranger