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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