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.


Some
days when I’m crossing streets,

Or
using the stovetop,

Or
shaking a friend’s hand,

I
think about that noise out in the ocean,

The
“Bloop,”

And
wonder if maybe Lovecraft was right

And
Cthulhu really is going to rise from the deep,

Rend
the earth asunder to bring forth a stench so fetid

And
dreams so black with horror

That
we will have no recourse but to die of fear

Before
the true end arrives,

And
all that was living is gone.

 

If
that’s the case, what’s holding me back?

I
should throw caution to the wind,

Cross
streets without looking

Cook
naked

And
lick my hand after every shake.

I
guess I could be living it up a lot better,

But
ultimately,

I think I would just
be strange.

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.

good:

Deep
undersea in

The
dark and the gloom

There
is a small noise

That signals our doom


A
crack in the earth,

A
hole in our seal,

From
which will erupt

A very raw deal

Stricken
in terror

The
people will flee

But
where will they go?

This end’s guaranteed

bad:
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.

  2 comments for “

  1. March 26, 2009 at 12:09 am

    my point was actually that lovecraft was a racist. a racist who wrote awesome stories.

  2. Anonymous
    March 26, 2009 at 1:56 am

    Go racism!

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