Monday, August 20, 2007

The Case of H.P. Lovecraft

Wait until the sun sets, falling silent
and the horizon hides in flick'ring light.
With shadowy pen, lurking fear is lent
a place haunting the dark, the blackest sight.
Tales of grotesque art, a burning eye -
there, on your doorstep, a thing? Listen long.
Look above to the stars, the Arkham sky,
hear the whispers' call - just pray that they're wrong.
Unearth courage and shew to the unknown
impressions from life, nightmares out of time.
The dead lie dreaming, yet freeze blood and bone -
a bare terrace - but look - terror sublime!
A head full of fright, sanity runs dry -
the stars are indeed right - our time is nigh!



















Happy birthday, HPL.



















"This sonnet is, without a doubt, the worst sonnet ever. Rest assured that I was on the internet within minutes, registering my disgust throughout the world."

2 comments:

Anthony Cartouche said...

I don't know, it wasn't the suckingest thing that ever sucked. I mean, I've seen things SUCK before, but . . .

Oh hell, I gotta go. My wiener kids are listening

Randal Graves said...

Yeah, like Larry Crai...wait, that was just a Wide Stance.