Waking to Pablo Neruda Pumping My Chest

I am possessed, and detest
this madness by which
I am obsessed. Possession
is nearer hatred but rather
appreciation is. The point:
I’ll never kill one single, solitary
part of myself. Was it Atticus
who said Love her, but leave her wild?
. every buzzing nerve fiber .
. every pinprick sensation .
I won’t balance. I won’t let anyone
tie a tightrope between the Twin Towers
and expect me to perform. I’ll cut that
motherfucker down and fly off a high-
rise like some chill superhero. It’s
blasphemous to mention T. S. Eliot
was the death of poetry, and I hate
him for it. But how near is love to hate?
Simultaneously on Facebook I subtly
infer a jellyfish looks like a Georgia
O’Keeffe painting, which means it looks like
a vagina. Like Eliot
I wrote the most powerful poem ever
written & read it aloud to my lover, who
read himself into the poem. I left
a teakettle to scream. I can say
. whatever I want . I can feel
. whatever I want . I can write
. whatever I want .
. whatever I want .
. whatever I want .
. whatever I want .

Behind the art

Pablo Neruda, Chilean poet and diplomat who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971. He is most famous for his vivid, palatable love poems in Spanish and English.