I’ve forgotten Neruda
And about beautiful things
I’ve not seen much—of the beauty, the
Real beauty. Sunshine and
Trees and shit. Where is the sunshine hiding.
A fucking bird landed on a fucking branch.
And it went a motherfucking
Chirp chirp chirp
Something about my lover,
Dreams, clouds, birds
Fly through clouds
Wings, my lover, goes
Chirp chirp chirp, my god.
I’ve married a pigeon!
Picture Pablo Neruda
Fucking some pigeon.
The lines he’d write, about
The feathery, squawking
Mouse-trapping climax.
He’d basically kill it. Then,
As poets often do,
He’d smear the stringy
Remains, the ripped bladder-
Torn stomach, the cookies
And cream shit playfully
Dripping down the dry-river
Of his trembling, Chilean
Eye lid.
The guts marinating
O’er his erect proboscis, I mean
His nose, but—yes, also his penis
The vile passion of Corinth
Perched on the heretic pulse
Of his Babeling Tower:
Neruda
The man behind:
 the politics
the poetry
the mystery
the pigeon
Fucker.