Go on, capitalist proprietors,
go on and shatter my precious worldview
with merchandising clatter battering
this disturbed noodle with cold cuts of doom!
COOKE HAM is now -- COOKED HAM? No! No! No! No!
Forgive cheating verse, but this proves a terse
warning: no, not pretzeldential dung of
Palin/Queztlcoatl 2012,
Mac the Knife's napalm dreams lining hell's shelf,
Jacko's corpse rotting in the LA sun;
no, none of that grisly fun -- something worse,
far, far worse than such a devilish curse.
Conjure six billion hearses, still too few!
Origin of that quick change, businessman,
I know all too well -- as should you! The return
of the Old Ones (at least not Cheney, whew)!
Let them cover up hidden agendas
of the planet's end, their holy grail.
These horrors need help now! Why? I'm sorry,
but Cthulhu is too big to fail.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Broken world
Posted by
Randal Graves
at
9:25 AM
33
commentaires
Labels: h.p. lovecraft, it's a mad mad mad mad world, la poésie, narcissism
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
A wonderful, magical animal
No, this post isn't about pork chops, bacon or ham, though the last could and should be considered the catalyst of this ramble for, each morning and evening, Tuesday through Saturday, I pass one particular convenient store of an endless number of convenient stores -- perhaps they will be the HQ of our societal downfall, that or the legalization of the ultimate gateway drug which will eventually create a mellow army of heroin addicts easily controlled but what about the cokeheads for they can get crazy and violent betcha didn't think about that I hope you're happy you filthy hippies -- boldly stating that COOKE HAM is for sale. Not VIRGINIA nor MAPLE nor SMOKED, but COOKE.
Was there a person with the surname of Cooke who, through ancient culinary techniques long lost to us head-in-the-sand moderns enslaved by the microwave and its invisible radioactive mind control rays, created this delicacy? Or, more plausibly, did the D simply fall, like David Bowie, to earth, never to be replaced because the manager of the store is of course a lazy American?
Cooke, in my wandering mind fueled by the morning sky whose oppressive, pallid mixture of cobalt and slate grey, pregnant with rain, inevitably led to Crookes, one William Crookes, inventor of the Crookes tube, an item that failed to defeat The Hideous Evil Elbow® in H.P. Lovecraft's The Shunned House, but something else did and thus a happy family now lives there, free of any horror from beyond. Why? They're crazy and violent cokeheads, and that'll scare the hell out of even cosmic terrors, duh.
The moral of this frightening tale? That we should start selling cocaine at your local convenient store.
Keep watching the skies in your mirrors!
Posted by
Randal Graves
at
8:46 AM
16
commentaires
Labels: h.p. lovecraft, narcissism
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Seasons greetings from scenic Innsmouth!
The Esoteric Order of Dagon wishes nothing but the fishiest best this holiday season to you and yours! At least until Cthulhu returns, then all bets are off.
H/T to Tom Hilton.
Posted by
Randal Graves
at
8:02 AM
14
commentaires
Labels: h.p. lovecraft
Thursday, October 4, 2007
The Thing That Should Not Be
Not counting some of the excellent not-all-that short shorts featured in the series presented by Lurker Films, could we potentially be looking at the first great, full-length, Lovecraft flick?
O, Mighty Cthulhu, make it so! You can even devour Washington, D.C. if it will make you happy. Just don't eat the rest of us until after the movie.
Posted by
Randal Graves
at
1:35 PM
0
commentaires
Labels: film, h.p. lovecraft
Friday, August 24, 2007
Madness from the sea
It matters not whether the stars are right,
the blasphemous minions of Cthulhu may destroy us yet!
Posted by
Randal Graves
at
12:03 PM
0
commentaires
Labels: h.p. lovecraft, weirdness
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."
Posted by
Randal Graves
at
7:06 AM
2
commentaires
Labels: h.p. lovecraft, i'm a lazy lazy man, la poésie
Thursday, July 26, 2007
I am Providence
"No. I am."
I think the old man himself would've been impressed with this cat.
In the lighter side of the news, some obscure and unimportant Bush administration official lied under oath again, greedy Republicans support the troops in the only way they know how, and the self-loathing of that intractable colony of rats in the walls merely serves to highlight their foolishness in the eyes of others. Boy, The Maverick is looking haggard. Oscar, up for a visit?
Posted by
Randal Graves
at
8:57 AM
0
commentaires
Labels: h.p. lovecraft, iraq, police state, republican shenanigans, weirdness, wingnuts say the dumbest things