#lovecraft
Yo ** yo ** Poseidon calls
All pirates out to sea!
Ye lily-liver'd lily pads,
He's calling you and me!
So cross your heart, and hope to die,
And double cross your soul,
And sail the seven deadly seas
Where salt tsunamis roll!
The rattling bones of Davy Jones
Are sounding fathoms deep!
Full fathom five thy father lies
Where crustyaceans creep!
Yo ** yo ** the scratching cat,
Its tails are nine, you know,
And when they're writ upon your back
Your bloodstreams flow and flow!
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 2:40 AM UTC
A gaze from out the darkness,
a shadow person of the Imaginary:
This is here; this is now.
I don't like people, they scare me. . .
too much. They're shadow people
of the Imaginary, given freewill.
I could see the shadows by myself,
And they can't see me; but these people
Their eyes are imbued with scrutiny,
I know I can't see it, but I know it's there
By their seeing me. Are you blind?
And maybe the world doesn't care about me,
But this doesn't make me feel free.
It means the only one caring, is me.
And I'm the nothing at the heart of everything.
And if I'm the only one in the universe
Who does - that is a cosmic horror,
Because the universe is my cradle,
And I'm alone.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 8:24 PM UTC
he would lie on the cliffs
the forbidding peaks,
dark and sinister, reaching out
rousing the old
horror loomed
whose boundaries no prophet might fix,
leaping through open windows at night
the most grotesque deaths
had been reported —
but this
was not the dense pall
of mystery —
he had turned,
could no longer be restrained — Hope
fell through the cyclone-whipped dark
foliage wilted
all that survived
had to be shot
Aug 14, 2025
Aug 14, 2025 at 2:26 AM UTC
There once was from West Wooloomooloo
A man who was called by Cthulhu
who asked for a loan
To buy a new phone
And renew his subscription to Hulu.
Jul 17, 2025
Jul 17, 2025 at 7:53 PM UTC
Hey boo, I find it hard to keep you off my mind because there you're always been found. My lady, I'm so attached to you, what an emotional obsession. Baby I can't stop thinking about you, can't stop picturing your face in the mirror of my heart I see your reflection in my soul. I feel you swimming the ocean of my life. Your charm submerge my spirit. Engulfed in the Conflagration of love ablaze my existence.
Oct 7, 2022
Oct 7, 2022 at 1:56 AM UTC
O old Gods who wait in morrow, let me shine in sacred sorrow
I proffer, and offer, my marrow, bone, flesh, to thine altar borne,
lone in meeting, only fleeting, silent here for duty sworn
My old Gods who sit in waiting, might I power just to borrow?
Only briefly you must loan me the magic to sunder torn.
Weak and trembl’ng, weak to muster, I sought courage, but I crumble,
at the sight of just thy vision, for to me it seems e’er unseen
naught to know but thy own master ‘til I patient, sorely lumber
wondering if fear has stolen me to thine own sacred meadow
when suddenly, fervently see thine true shape and face and form and
terrible dreams enter my soul e’er to stay and e’er to fecund
for death I prefer to understanding the truth our Gods have shunned.
Yet little more did I then speak among the dead and too the meek,
falling towards an abyss so deep that makes my heart and soul weep
dying truly like a phantom lurking in the shallows creep
and yet falling ever faster and so overwhelmed by deep
my eyes and ears saw nothing and heard nothing, not a leap
from the darkness that consumed me e’er more did I fail to seek
that which cannot only reap the dead and tear them ‘til they so reek
so sharp and pointed so it was even I could witness and speak
“Who have I wronged in this place so awful that I am gaoled oblique?
Yet can still think and ponder the widow’s peak and in vain self-wreak?”
in sacred toil among the stardust that makes us shine so mystique.
What does thou will, O lord, my lord, of more than we can ever tell?
I know it is not my duty not to know. Ask I must, ask besides
the husk of my body is yours and yet I know little of thee
by whose authority do wield such magics and more asides?
it is not plain to me what sort of horror lies ‘neath the scorched ground
so why do I? Why do I scream? Why do I see the beast in me?
The hound that hunts for those who must be slaughtered despite what else they seek
the wolf inside that hunts, rips, and tears, taken apart piece by piece
the awful sound of howling that’s for me to not and never cease
the stars themselves align to my fate fear in mind and e’er besides
‘tis here that I myself sit alone and finally soon to die.
for death I prefer to the fate our Gods have brought to us benumbed.
Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 5:40 AM UTC
Who says oceans are deep
It's your exquisite eyes
Who says sugar is sweet
It's your soft soothing voice
Who says nature is nurturing
It's your electrifying touch
Who says flowers are beautiful
It's your scarless smile
Who says rainbows are colorful
It's your exotic expressions
Who says nobody is perfect
For me It's flawless you
Who says dreams can't come true
'Cause mine is in front of me for sure
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 3:28 AM UTC
"DRUNK IN LOVE."
Gradually I'm getting possessed, obsessed by thy love--craft, emotionally flew his heart reaching out to her's. He's intoxicated drunk in love.
Lost in the
lovesome thought of her's. His
heart is detained underneath
the water of
her soul.
So we're
sensitively
soul mates.
We met as 2 rivers confluences.
Indescribe-able
what these mean.
#C9_fm
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 10:45 AM UTC
Fur of bat
toad-like grin
eyes of lazy gold
green in sin
Sitting on the edge of forever
croaking sweet lullabies
a tendril tongue spanning galaxies
devouring worlds like tiny flies
A slothful gluttony so boundless
a privilege to slip down his amphibian throat
let's spend eternity inside him
together churning, wailing, floating in the acid moat
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 5:44 PM UTC
in the void
the darkness
the sapphire shadows below
i have waken soon all of mankind will know
from the waters i rise
to bring you a cold wet demise
the tides they turn the moon she burns
the great flood is here
the ground soaks in the oceans tears
oh my followers they wept
deep down in the depths
how long have i slept?
celestial dreams my planet of rings
judgment and their cries
"no one can escape her watchful eyes"
now that i am awake terra she shakes
man is five and yes i am eight
the tentacles from your nightmares
the dreams that you hate
the cleanse has begun
my song is now sung
all hear my call
the great cthulhu brings you your fall
Nov 26, 2020
Nov 26, 2020 at 12:30 AM UTC
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.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 1:38 PM UTC
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
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 6:46 PM UTC
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.
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 2:54 PM UTC
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.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 5:51 PM UTC
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.
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 3:48 PM UTC
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
Jan 10, 2020
Jan 10, 2020 at 1:49 PM UTC
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.
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 5:27 PM UTC
To sailors mad and poets in pain,
In dreams of unimagined colors,
Appeared Cthulhu horror-bearer
Spreading phantoms to their brain
Praise Cthulhu Lord of Terror
Harbor of sleep to the insane.
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 6:01 PM UTC
The sky is blue, and water wet;
So the ocean must be too.
Once I sunk beneath the waves
To gain a better view:
Pink and spongy; black and scaly;
Yellow jelly, cold and clammy;
Beady eyestalks glaring
From an urchin crusted cave.
Clustered tubercles protruding,
Searching tentacles recoiling,
Pulsing mandibles awaiting;
Ever lurking in the shade.
The universe exploding with
One billion burning suns,
Is empty, void and meaningless
When all is said and done.
So for those inclined to measure
What hue the ocean be:
Ignore her gaudy creatures
For the darkness in between.
The sky is blue, and water wet,
But the ocean – it is black
And I fear the vile abyss that is
Endless, dark, and black.
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 8:05 AM UTC
Born out of chaos, the chaos that sleeps,
Crept out of the Nameless Mists,
Spawn of void and boundless deeps,
Knows and sees all that can exist.
He knows, knows all he knows and sees,
He sees all and broods and waits,
He stands guard and holds the keys,
He knows the gate, he is the gate.
He's as great as space is vast.
By the unnameable's dreams he's brought,
The present, the future and the past,
All are one in Yog-Sototh.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 8:57 PM UTC
It’s just a book. Nothing more.
A combination of translated words,
written upon tan paper
and bound in black leather.
It’s just a book, and yet somehow
it infects the minds of the readers,
twisting them until
there is nothing left inside their skulls,
nothing but its insidious whisperings.
“The Book of Dead Names”
is the title’s translation, as if to say
those whose times are recorded within
are among us no more.
Or perhaps the author,
so distraught by what he had learned,
sealed their existence away
in the shrine of forgetfulness
so that no others would suffer like him.
Just a book.
Just words.
Harmless, comforting letters, arranged
into patterns.
Yet, using only these written words,
the mad Arab has conveyed
our smallness in the immensity
of this our universe,
our insignificance alongside
the insatiable hunger of the stars.
He paid dearly for his prehension,
crumbling away like an ancient ruin
before the endless, shifting desert
that is the merciless chaos.
He is gone.
But his lexicon remains.
Just a book.
But such knowledge is not meant
for the fragile, breakable forms
of our species. To understand
our place in the universe,
and the immeasurable horrors
from which aegis of Ignorance
shields us, is to let go
of the handholds of sanity and drift
silently off into the void of enlightenment.
Yet still the book is read. Still humanity
turns its gaze to the stars,
and deep beneath the earth, searching
for confirmation of what we already know,
though our psyche may forbid
us to conceive of it.
Knowledge is not power. It is not freeing.
It is death. Death and ruin to all
who grasp the truth of this dark world.
It’s just a book.
A book penned by a man insane.
Rows of indecipherable words upon
innumerable pages, worn away by time.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 12:38 PM UTC