Hank’s corpse, suspended over the room,
drips alcoholic blood on all of us.
It’s been up there for almost forty years
and someone should consider taking it down.
All I see around me are writers
imitating his corpse, wearing his
awful scent like it’s some expensive perfume.
It’s one thing to acknowledge his presence
over us, swinging gently, shriveled penis
pointing due south,
and completely another thing
to draw blood samples,
meditate under him, and poke
his abdomen in search of inspiration.
Go away, Hank, we love you,
but you’re old and your time has passed,
and to be honest you suffered from
several emotional deficiencies.
Your disability made you a great writer,
but your corpse in here makes the writers
lose touch with their hearts and pencils.
I have decided to bury you next to Neruda,
where for once you can hear the waves breaking.