Sunday, 21 June 2009


Here it is - the final(ish)

In yer one bloody novel
Yer stuck me up a freezing moor
with ice cold brothers
and a knock about lover:
his swarthy, unknown origins
kept under a caustic tongue
with other Gothic undesirables.

Did yer have to put me in this time?
The outside inside of Victorian woman,
ghost paths and scratched windows
where the wildness of my own skin
finds me an unfashionable
counterpart in the male.
Did you have to make him my rock
in death?
And did I have to end up in that
song by Kate Bush?

These eyes carry two skeletal visions:
both severed from our source before we
locked our breathing.
The shaping of industry
is a mirror
that makes devil's imps of us.
He and I bear an interchangable misery.
But we do not speak of it in the now.
The words are not there to cover the

So, partriachs,
Heathcliff performs his own exorcism
unidentified and nightly.
If you strain beyond your
alloted era
to hear clues of this ritual
after midnight you might know
a true lunacy
and one with integrity.
Follow my trail of scattered fragments,
torn from a single dress
hanging from branches tipped by rain-bloodied
along supernature's path
to love without romance.

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