The one that tried to be a love poem

Erudite,
she dreamt of being a pink rotund
Botticelli lady,
what she got was somewhere between Garbo and Groucho.

Kissed the boys and made them cry,
bit like onion squamous epithelia-
but gravy’d be so bland without it.

She dreamt of running
like the Earnshaw lass on those
heathery moors in the dark,
half crazed with tempestuous passions,
windswept and erotic; hair whipped
all eyes and teeth and banshee bared.

But she knew that falling into a peat bog in a see through nightie
bearing a batty full moon
was more her style.

Often a daydream would lead to D’arcy
and his reserved sarcasm.
This Lizzie couldn’t dance either,
but she had a penchant for words
(and the bosoms for an empire line).

Realistically, locking in an attic
is whats best.

As long as I get a good book.
And maybe some matches.

Happy Samhein! ๐Ÿ˜€

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2 responses to “The one that tried to be a love poem

  1. Happy Samhain to you too, Shan! I already tweeted my response, but it bears repeating: “nothing wrong with your “The One that Tried to be a Love Poem”. It runs riot through Austen and Bronte with no uncertain sang-froid..” Not sure now where I thought Jane Austen was involved (the matches?), but the mood and drama of Wuthering Heights is right in your face! It’s a really good read, this poem.

Put me out of my misery people!

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