“A Novel Deposition”

Written as I reflected on the disaster that is my minimalistic love life. I thought to myself, why did I read all that romance? I screwed myself up in the head. I was too easily drawn into what you might term ‘consent’. But what is consent when men use persuasion to attain it? Who’s to say Mr. Darcy and Heathcliff didn’t use that look to bring Lizzy and Cathy around? Thus this poem was born.

“A Novel Deposition”

O why oh why did you not tell me that?

That aye I ought to heave the girls away

These heroines have hardly good to say

But praise the pound and arch, heart’s pitterpat

O why oh why did you not tell me that?

Did you forget He’s fondle with an eye

To win cat’s cream by cleaved and clever tale

Of coming love if lady leaps the rail

Or lifts her clothes without a thought or cry?

Nay that I was not told, Countess, not I

I query every prophet old and wise

“What is consent when novel words call ‘Bed’?”

Was Lizzy B. a doll who popped her head?

Was Cathy raped by Heathcliff’s gypsy eyes?

Why fits a pair of breeches fair disguise?

For men faire all the same tie or cravat

They make a milk that Marian girls lap­­

And – ‘Ah-ha!’ – turn you into (here’s the trap)

A wino – Why? No! Why’d he tell me that?       

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