This is a poem I have done for my class, and I just really like it, so I am sharing it with the world. It's in the style of the Tropico, which is a form consisting of 22 lines, that is, 11 unrhyming couplets, no puncuation but a period at the end of the last line. I figured I would try one, and this one is about Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights, which today is my favorite book.
The Last Hours on the Moor
Sparks burning bloody rope are stories that start at the end
the gentleman tenant “watched the moths fluttering around the heath”
cold watered-down anemic fields cracked by a reported goblin
a ghoul a vampire a Melmoth sort of waste of existence
and an existential fairy tale about the selfish and sadomasochist
nature of that gypsy having vengeful mono-vision
and glaring at Catherine in mirrors but only mortally desiring
the feel of a corset’s whalebone waist under his own hands
Lovecraft wrote in 1945 a description on the event
of the gnashing gray pus sloshing living corpse
sleeping in the juicy graves of dead girlfriends and wailing
melting plate glass to chunky molasses
that is the Brood was pealing himself open on vast choking grass
and rolling like black Jell-O in a Moor winter
somewhere circling 1801 on loose soil under spastic kinetic
eyelids and presenting something more vicious and visceral
than my 2004 when I found the event slightly dry and just on the
edge of the cliff of horror’s orgasm with its mere knocking on casket doors
is just a small thrush of disappointment but just the same a suggestion
to what really happened in the scandalous last hours on the Moor
when he chewed off pieces of himself only to return in a few days
grinning as stiff as the isolation hill he made his and her bed.
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