"Thumbscrews" Coleridge

This might sound silly, but I'm furious at Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

I'm going to write in a clear and simple style for the next three days to make up for all the times he tortured defenseless Grammar's poor denuded body. The rack and the screw, the wheel, the maiden, fire and knives, all implemented with fiendish precision and a total lack of conscience while poor Syntax, bound at the wrists and ankles, is not even allowed to scream in agony for the soiled cravat shoved in her mouth as she is bent in ways a body was not built to withstand. Diction is cut a thousand tiny times until she bleeds a thousand tiny drops, and the last proves too much. Not only English, but Greek, Latin, and German bones poke broken through holes in the flesh of Language. Clarity's limbs are torn and piled until she is no longer recognizable for the blood smeared on her face. Lucidity weeps and Logic shivers in shock as he steps next to them with his mandible sheers, dripping the entrails of Cogency, who is still dying, though not for long, already gutted completely. All those Angels, the daughters of Philosophy, expired and expiring while the mother looks on aghast, knowing only, finally, that she will be the next to fall to the encroaching madman with the gleaming teeth, the opioid eyes, and the screwdriver... my god, not the screwdriver...

Egads! It's already too late! I too have fallen victim to this this evil creature, this Coleridge! Demons out!


nickbujak said...

Dude, I think you just need to chill out. You know, rock some Ravi Shankar quietly in the background, turn down the lights to an ambient glow, -- oh, and don't forget about the laudanum. Got to got to got to have that laudanum. Laudanum

And then you can visit Kubla Khan's stately pleasure dome.

D said...

Man, I love that poem. So why do I hate this motherfucker so much?