It Feels Like Neptune...


It feels like Neptune is pissing on the world,
and a pool of it is puddled in the middle of my forehead.
Icy tears of pelting rain press my footsteps into oozing mud.
I shudder at cesspools of clinging sludge,
in every dip or low spot, while my stomach
resents the cup of coffee I have just drunk.
How do those who scatter sunshine
like birdseed, harvest so much of it?


It feels like Neptune is pissing on me. How did
Bronte turn this landscape into a romantic epic?
Yet Iíve dreamed of walking across a Scottish moor
in a winter mist, of standing beside flooded rivulets
rushing through deep ravines. A lover, moody,
brooding and dark, walking beside me.
As cold trickles of rain curl down my spine,
it seems a morbid, romantic fantasy.


Fog clings to the pastureís dips and curves
like wet wool, clammy, cold and damp.
Heathcliff and I would have probably crushed
each other in the overwhelming pall of it.
The low lands are a swampy bog.
I can only dream of getting into a car
and driving until I find sunshine,
or asking my doctor for a sunshine pill.


It must have felt like Neptune was pissing on her
when Bronte sculpted Heathcliff with her pen.
Yet she turned a dismal setting into something epic,
oozing romance and mystery. Is my despair,
my depression, a mirror of the miserable month,
or if I listen to the heart beat of this ancient land,
will I hear her romance and mystery?
Will I learn to hear the drama of her history?


Love, Jody