I Want To Dig Up A Certain Metaphysical Poet And Chop Him To Messes

I’ve got the shovel, the lantern, the battered copy of the Necronomicon and, to put it bluntly, I’m about the walk out the door and act out of my vindictive rage-fuelled fantasy on a certain metaphysical poet, who has been the epicentre of much stress and pain in my insignificant and ancillary existence, being a box of worm seed, salvatory of green mummy and slab of fantastical puff paste, over the last year.
 Yep, it looks like I’m through the hysterical stage and now I’m just gonna march over to the poet’s corner, pretend I’ve come to renovate, or paint, or something, and then I’m going to dig in, dig out, and tear up a few bright bracelets of hair around bones and if I get the time, an outward soul.

Goddamnit, I am sick of the motherfucking conceits in those motherfucking poems – I can hardly take it anymore. I don’t care if that subtle wreath of hair which crowns his arm will keep his limbs her provinces from dissolution and all that other happy go lucky orthodox crap. If it wasn’t for John Webster’s casual and refreshing nihilism, elegantly reminding of us of what a shadow, or deep pit of darkness doth, fearful and womanish mankind live, then I probably would have ran screaming from my educational institution by now.
 I guess it’s time of evening, although I should not harm nor question much that – goddamnit. I’ll have to leave it, just in case it breeds idolatry. Goddamnit. Donne must be turning in his grave.