To Neruda

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There have been more winners, of Miss World and Miss Universe,
From South America, than anywhere else in the world. 
The beauty of the mixed-breed women,
How genes painted over indigenous skin,
And a man, who now lives inside a grave,
Transforming paint into words.
How inner beauty pollutes the poetic sense,
Of how radiant perfection is, in sebum and sweat,
The women that make the catwalk, a muse’s pedestal,
And gifts to the poet’s pen, the license to sensualize love.

The flesh of a man, whose libido transformed
The poem to a devotion of the female form.
How one man still smiles from his grave,
A man, whose poem stood alone, like a spinster and her twat,
And made love, earthy and miraculous.
How far from fornication love was to this man, Neruda, who
Seduces even now, from below his gravestone.

The Chilean woman who will forever be indebted to a man,
Who gave a woman’s body, the killer-instinct,
The fires like that of Tierra del Fuego,
Smaller than a man, who remembers
The theogony of an orgasm, seemingly smiling from his grave,
The bones still shattering a teeny bit,
Feeling little tremors…..

Those perpetuating aftershocks.

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