Wuthering Slights

Wuthering Slights

“Writers were
pathetic people”
—Ted Hughes,
“Wuthering Heights,”
Birthday Letters

It was pretty much—
Over with when we got there

The open moors, gamma rays—
A decomposing, forsaken quarry

Dreadful drab flaking slabs—
Rubble of stone and sheep shit

I was twice as ambitious—
As Emily Bronte among the ruins

I sulked in the moody moors—
It was right up my dark alley

Amidst the rubble & ruins—
Crumbly stonework, door frames

I breathed it all in—
The burnt-out, worn-out remains

All the failed efforts, failed hopes—
A bridge back to stone rubble past

Doing what Emily Brontë did—
Playing the Heathcliff  big goodbye

Letting the moors wind blow—
The heath-grass always restless

Letting Sylvia tell her story—
Her child-idiot’s notion of me

Peering thru her jealous envious—
Gimp-eyed gaze like Bronte’s double

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