Showing posts with label h.p. lovecraft. Show all posts
Showing posts with label h.p. lovecraft. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Broken world















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, 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!

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.

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.

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!

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."

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?