Parody of Sonnet XVII

Sonnet XVII, by Pablo Neruda:

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

My version of Sonnet XVII:

I do not love you as if you were salt-water, and me, drowning
in the bubbles of flatulence the surface shoots out.
I love you as certain Barry Manilow albums are to be loved,
in secret, between visits by the music police.

I love you as the car that never starts
but sits rusting in the dank of dad’s garage;
thanks to your breath a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the onion bagel you ate this morning, lives darkly in my nose.

I’d love you even if you were a cow, or a hen, or a mare.
I’d love you lobotomized, without brain matter or thought;
so I love you because Britney Spears is already
taken: Kate Hudson’s hitched, too,

so close that we’re like those Siamese Twins Chang and Eng,
so close that you go to the bathroom when I have to pee.