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The movie From Beyond had me feeling like the throbbing vein in my head could be my Pineal Gland, and I could be suffering from prolonged over-stimulation to strange ghosts.
I don't seriously think this to the point I peeled the skin off my forehead with a sharp instrument high on drugs or anything.  


P.S. If I show anyone a picture, can they tell if it's going to need stitches?
Norman Crane Oct 1
I found the two-headed baby deer dying
on a bed of soft pine needles under cover of an overturned oak,
not five kilometres from my cottage,
Its lungs still pumped,
Its crimson heart beat weakly through a thin,
translucent skin,
that decayed before my eyes,
until there was no skin,
and all the organs lay warm and still,
in a heap upon the earth,
like waste.

A god evaporated.

It is human nature to disbelieve
that one may be witness to epochal events,
so I did not believe that I,
of all people,
should be witness to the death of time.

Epochal: the concept itself is dead.

How lucky we were
to know time at its cleanest,
and most linear!

We know now that such constant linearity
was the consequence of a living entity,
It followed the creature like stench follows a skunk,
and we basked in it
as if it was the natural state of the world.

No more.

Time no longer heals,
Things do not pass,
Or pass only to return.

At first we believed this would be manageable,
Yes, we thought, we will relive our pain but also our love,
Everything shall be magnified!
Welcome to an age of great emotions,
a new Romanticism!

Yet we overestimated how much we help,
failed to accept how much we hurt.

And we did not realize the nature of evil,
which accumulates in a way love does not,
To re-experience our love is to know it,
again and again,
at the same intensity,
but to re-experience pain is to increase its volume until it overpowers us,
deafening us to everything else.

I will never forget the creature's eyes,
full of hatred or hubris,
yet seeking aid it knew I could not give.

How does one save a dying god?

It was not my fault!

I was but a child asked suddenly to solve a deathbed equation
expressed in an undiscovered mathematics,
I had to fail,
yet in failing I have brought it all upon us.

I relive it constantly,
Every time its eyes are louder.

But it is the hour for my afternoon walk,
so I will take a pause and enjoy what remains of living.

I will go to my favourite spot overlooking the city,
and sit on the iron bench,
from where the view is magnificent,
Above me,
the clouds will form,
a tangle of pain and human corpses,
and I will sit and ponder until the first blood drops fall,
Then the screaming will begin,
the final storm will rage,
Beating, crimson corpse-clouds under a thin skin
of dissipating reality,
raining blood until we are left
warm and still upon the earth.
Norman Crane Sep 25
On snow, his padded footfalls echo low
Heart beats: haste, fear
As none but its reverberations know
The ancient horror lurking near
A flash! Before the darkness rushes in
Not night but something deeper
Tentacles binding from within
Swift minions of a speaker
Whose very voice is sin
Whispering, listen, listen, in the language of the wind
Across what remains of summer's leaves
A murmured knowledge of the fate of thieves
And as the stolen idol drops
And the ancient one appears
His eyes begin to bleed
Discongealing the accumulation of his fears
Lovecraft-inspired narrative horror about a thief who mistakenly believed he was stealing from a human.
colorfulSmoke Sep 2019
In night’s black expanse I envy the moon while it sits.

Jumping through the night's sky scattering joy to the ground.

Wet sand finds my feet falling,
as jellyfish beg for company.
They, like my feet, miss the sea.

The tide is so cold on my toed
leaving shock waves in my head.

Wetly embraced by sea, air bubbles trace my appendages,
curious to see how silly jellyfish must find drowning.

They glow down here and die in water pulses already drowned,
to become jellified moons in a sodium-filled coffin.

Jenga blocks wish  to stack me back on the moon
but I seep in silent raptures with gelatin halos of deadly splendor.
Death Moons at the bottom of existence,
too deep to envy.

Sea smiles stretch my face skin, while wooden frowns sink.
I look up to the moon, I glow with envy,
as drowning takes its seat.
I am damaged goods
A corruption of heart
Up from abyssal depths,
Down to desolate clouds.
The fragment lying between
I am not the incessant air,
A rage of non awakening.
Culmination of all fears.
No words do then, describe
me; I do not conform to rules.
Exception I am; ambiguous
A regular consonantal fool ?
Decreed to consume it all
I carry a ravenous thirst.
Unchecked; I grow fervor
A demon, I am accursed.
Where, then, do I find home
Where does my soul belong ?
Whom shall I call my tribe
Then; what do I, thus long ?
I am damaged goods, get ye'
I do not conform to codes.
I belong to the nether realm
Let me lie, in my .. abode.
Do not then, exhume me,
I have chosen to slither in. And,
Lie dormant in the underground.
Where exist I may, in quiet
Lie hidden away, from the
carnal realm, I want none of it.
A monster of my own making,
A necromancer of the Undead.
An ode to both Dostoevsky and Lovecraft. I tried describing the existential pain of being in a world where you understand too much and thus are left, disappointed in everything, people.
NC Burch May 1
This writhing building contracts
digesting haggard brows and sloughed skin
in a stew of sweaty, fermenting death
as potent and futile as lightning
arcing and lashing until bent
and wound and coiled neatly
turning a cog within a series of cogs
within a series of cogs ad infinitum
producing noise at the cost of friction
spewing endless effluvia skyward
a cosmic howl at the ****** stars
rabid after more paradise to devour
Extended metaphor for an apocalyptic engine.
Inspired by the poetry of Clark Ashton Smith .
Kvothe Apr 12
An eldritch aura permeates
a palace, long forgotten.
I fell. Which may illuminate
my place amongst the rotten.

How long these ruins slept, I fear's
a desert measured aeon,
for sand has creep'd and crept in here,
a structure so protean.

This place it whispers death and dust,
a sister to the barrow.
I must escape this depth. I must!
These halls are much too narrow.

The stench of age, it fills the air,
with hints of green and purple.
Appendages, they slither there,
My thoughts they now encircle.

A mutter on the wind calls me,
it sends my digits lame.
Fluttered eyes. Where two should be,
five globules cry my name.

That fickle murmor, foe at first,
but now I know my error.
He tickles thoughts and quenches thirst.
Come, how could it sow terror?

All is well, I've found a friend,
His hug is warm and tight.
His many arms they do not end,
but wriggle, kiss, and bite.
Lovecraft inspired. I'm not sure how clear the story is. Guy gets lost in ruins. Meets some ancient creature. Creature takes over his mind, setting him at ease, only to eat him.
From murk-filled
depth, the unmaker—
little death from
which all sloth
does come—
rises
to squelch, slime-
smeared from left or
right ventricle up
capillaries to seat
of man, now
dethroned
immured to a
ribbed cage,
irons round
fatted calves, while
time-gorged with
leaps not taken,
the usurper burrows
fetid tentacles into
grey velvet folds, a
sort of un-
gyrification, each
parasite hook
best removed early
lest it become
entrenched.
This was written for a contest on another site. There were a few prompts to choose from, each one a quote from H.P. Lovecraft. I chose two:

“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear."

“ Do not call up that which you cannot put down."
Aaron E Jan 10
Loading up my black mirror Skinner box to feel connected

Growing in the recesses craft horrors have recollected

Knowing when the tendrils attach more ascend to deck and
Burrow with an aim to enact order and stay infected.

Preying on desire with cracked swords a solemn gesture
spills aboard aloft an impactful throne of sordid fester

None adorn a thwarting reaction as a suit of armor
Gunning for the floor the distraction of a warring vessel.

Thunder isn’t half of the problem pouring ocean water.
Nothing but an echo, the past it seems was scarcely special

Wonder if the grip will relax if I can paddle harder
Sunder every bridge in a gasp for the forgotten nestle

Covered up in plastic, ******* thinks he’s just a farmer
Wonder when the bones in my back will feed the mortar pestle.

Fumble with a weapon enraptured in the frozen water
Doesn’t change the fact that the ******* on another level
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2019
The drive is endless, perilous,
and being recorded for posterity,
because one planet
is no longer enough.

H.P. Lovecraft is at the wheel,
and we're looking at one thing
and not your mother.

That was a Freudian slip,
but not really surprising
since he's also along for the ride.

And when we get there
we'll scavenge for sovereignty
in the orange filter of hope.

Then a flag will mark
our demesne,
a spot defining both
pride & terror,
as it delivers a dose of ambition,
yet, reeks of future tyranny.

Pray our luck runs out along the way
or we run out of gas
or steam
or headway...

Then again, maybe we should
hope for the breast.
I mean best !
Freud's at it again.
Because one planet is no longer enough
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