A Parody?

Good poetry, it seems,
Is lists.

Lists of facts.
I love you.
I despise you.
I eat an orange, peeled from
north to south, every Sunday.

Lists of randomness.
An eagle, broken in its nest.
A doll with its arms torn off.
The sound of a man swallowing,
Who has just murdered a cat.

Good poetry, is seems,
Is anatomy.
Ribs, white, cradling a bloody heart
Like a new-born child.
Love, composed of
Sweat, and
        Skin
             Evisceration
                      The final day of
      The Somme
burning in his eyes.

I shall insert      a caesura
(or should it be a caesarean?)
in which the child died
in which the mother reacted
as a 1950s heroine,
with emotion choked inside.

I should end with

A list.

1. Your fingers
2. The inside of an eggshell
3. Cracks between paving-stones
4. The flowers that grow in them
5. Beginnings
6. Endings.