had to write a poem about a myth. i wrote one about cthulhu. i probably won’t turn it in, since it’s not a very good poem and lacks “metaphors” and “tropes.” but whatever. fuck “poetry.” i didn’t even proofread this shit. hardcore.
days when I’m crossing streets,
using the stovetop,
shaking a friend’s hand,
think about that noise out in the ocean,
wonder if maybe Lovecraft was right
Cthulhu really is going to rise from the deep,
the earth asunder to bring forth a stench so fetid
dreams so black with horror
we will have no recourse but to die of fear
the true end arrives,
all that was living is gone.
that’s the case, what’s holding me back?
should throw caution to the wind,
streets without looking
lick my hand after every shake.
guess I could be living it up a lot better,
I think I would just
i also wrote a bunch of lyrical stanzas, in case i wanted to do a rhyming cthulhu poem. it was a cool idea until i couldn’t stop thinking in meter. some turned out ok, but others were poor.
dark and the gloom
is a small noise
That signals our doom
crack in the earth,
hole in our seal,
which will erupt
A very raw deal
people will flee
where will they go?
This end’s guaranteed
cthulhu did rise
and the niggers did shriek
for their end was near
before they could speak!
that bad one was at the urging of ian. he’s a foul person. foul, foul person. i am almost entirely sure that word is never going to comfortably re-enter the vernacular. probably an ok thing.