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.
Anybody who turned up with a head full of sentimental nostalgia, or memories turned palatable and warm over the years, would have been disappointed. In fact, if anything, most people seemed hell-bent upon making sure that the ghastly spectacle of two hundred unrelated students, thrown together by blind luck and perhaps a handful of reluctant common interests, did not become exactly that – the husk of some awful social rite of passage, paraded across Facebook and god knows where else while, presumably, the same perverse ritual was carried out across hundreds of educational institutions across the country. It was.
But there were no sad, chubby children with men’s faces pining wistfully in the background of a photograph and no damp-eyed wretches flitting from clique to clique with a doomsday book of thoughts, or jolts in the brain that resembled thoughts. Nothing but an hour or two, mediocre and anonymous in the sense that those very same gestures were being, had been and would be replicated across the globe thousands of times over, and with each passing occasion it seemed that no statement gained any gravity at all.
There’s the poor cunt with whom you slept/spoke/spat out rumours, and they promise they’ll stay in touch and there seems to be an air of regret/resignation/righteousness about them, but it’s certainly rather bright out here which, it seems, has a habit of dazzling things out of proportion. Of course, they’ll stay in touch, they say. But they won’t.
Nor will you shake hands. I wouldn’t trust those lusty spades, if I were you.
