Analysis of "the vision of Maynards stinkfist" a poem in free verse

Turn the rivers round,
I lay on beds to sit and expose the bongs,
of your life in the cables,
to see the fable,
in my open clinched fist,
to taste the wine,
to encapsulate the feelings left,
inside the black taste of your soul,
to digest the inner instant incline,
of the utter ensemble of waste,
that you incinerate,
from the face of the power,
you posses to replace,
the trace of your feelings,
digging in the grapes,
within your soul.
I grasp to feel,
to take your hand