Goth Lit Crit

Weird tales, as a rule, aren’t that weird.
The wish for the strange cracks its ribs
With the strain of heaps of piled bones
In dark hours, but the bones don’t stir.

We’re weak. Our minds know it’s all weird,
The plain world en plein air, but how
Can we strip off the flesh of thought
To show the cracks in the bones bare?

We go at it in the worst way.
We boil down the meat of dull days
So it’s all black blood and grey shades,
Then we say, How weird it is! Pray!

We should paint in the light. Our minds
Should be left like spring lambs at play.
The germs are in the guts, the hawks
In the air. Wait. Wolves will be there.