Monday, July 23, 2012

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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