open letter to you maybe


sometimes i think of how you opened your lips to kiss me

and how i would close my mouth in disgust.

i would do




empty again.

i feel,



and it feels so fucking unreal.

The murder of my lover, Pablo Neruda.

Pinochet was another CIA funded wanker undesirable. After years of American funded opposition to the Chilean government (because the US loves liberty) Pinochet stormed to power and set about categorically shutting down the opposition, abandoning parliament, censoring media and torturing and killing leftist opponents where necessary. Liberal dissidents such as Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, better known as Pablo Neruda, then prominent public icons were marked figureheads for removal.


It has lately transpired that Neruda may have indeed succumbed and been an un-knowing victim of Pinochet’s regime. Recent investigations into his death, have suggested that Neruda may have been killed by a malignant inocuolation, twelve precocious days into the Pinochet take-over alongside several other thousand citizens, cut down by the Junta. Neruda’s untimely exit was attributed to Prostate cancer. Chileans mourned. The world shrugged and Pinochet stormed onwards. Neruda is to exhumed in the weeks to come.

Neruda was a man, who had pissed off America for some time. A nobel prize winning laureate, poet and diplomat was seen as an enemy that required removal. Anyone who has ever had the pleasure of encountering the poetry of this man could see to the contrary. His word continues to resound amongst the ears of the world over, rolling from their lips, dancing through the breeze with poetic instruction. Anyone who has ever fallen in love can hear the resounding familiarity of his word, the palpitating onomatopoeia ; anyone who has ever felt testament to a cause has felt his hand upon their shoulder, anyone who has longed for something better has looked at the world through mis ojos, “My Eyes.”


We are capable of some profoundly malevolent actions, human though we are. We can turn on our televisions and sit in cold apathy to the world outside, watching poverty, social injustice, oppression, war, famine, disease, multinationals, consumerism, politics, capitalism and genuine fear of our own pointlessness tear us and each other apart. Hundreds of thousands of Syrian civilians have perished in the previous months whilst the UN security council sits powerless in fear of Persian and Russian older brothers. Our world is fighting and dying for politics.

Neruda was by no means a model human being, but he was a start. He didn’t have all the answers but for his brief period on this stormfront he lit up a strip of land off the Pacific.

I can’t say a lot but tonight, I can write the saddest lines.


So now he’s gone and I buried him,
and that’s all there is to it.