Songs for/by Cthulhu

Siden dodofuglen er i det lovecraftianske hjørnet, føltes det avgjørende å dele dette med dere:

Og når vi nå er inne på abominasjoner gjorde den gale mullaen Hastur meg oppmerksom på denne vederstyggeligheten:

«The Cats», av H.P. Lovecraft

Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering
Flames of futility swirling below;
Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.

Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
Cobwebs of cable to nameless things spun;
Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
Streams of live foetor that rots in the sun.

Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
Shrieking and ringing and crawling insane,
Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.

Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal.
Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,
Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,
Yelling the Garden of Pluto’s red rune.

Tall towers and pyramids ivy’d and crumbling,
Bats that swoop low in the weed-cumber’d streets;
Bleak Arkham bridges o’er rivers whose rumbling
Joins with no voice as the thick horde retreats.

Belfries that buckle against the moon totter,
Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac’d,
And living to answer the wind and the water,
Only the lean cats that howl in the wastes.

På sådan en solskinnsdag

Solen skinner, helgen nærmer seg, man kan lett komme til å bli lett om hjertet. Da er det viktig å minne seg om at alt ikke nødvendigvis er som det først kan se ut til. Hm, har ikke den bussjåføren gjeller?

Syng med alle sammen: «It’s beginning to look a lot like fishmen / Everywhere I go.»

Hvis du fortsatt er ved godt humør, burde dette ta knekken på uvesenet:

Le med Lovecraft

I sitt hus på Ryen hviler som kjent den store Cthulhu. Det ikke mange vet er at han bruker tiden på å planlegge sitt neste stand up-show.

Skulle han trenge hjelp, kryr det mye omtalte internettet av tentaklet humor. Dodofuglen har flydd rundt og skrapet sammen høydepunkter til dere, dens kjære lesere, så dere skal han noen skikkelige grøss til påsken.

Så derfor mine damer, herrer og shoggother, har vi gleden av å presentere Le med Lovecraft. Shudder, o deadly ones:

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«Waiter! Waiter! There’s a dead squid in my soup!»
«It’s not dead, Sir. It’s just dreaming.»

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Necrotelecomnicon: the book of dead phone numbers.

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So Nyarlahotep pops across to the library where Cthulhu’s actually a bit more rugose and squamous then usual. And he says, what’s up?

And Cthulhu says «Rl’yeh fthagn, ahem! Blimey! Sorry, phlegm. Bit ill, actually.»

So Nyarlahotep rubs three of his pseudopods together and says, «I have just the thing!»

And he leads the mighty Elder One across the non-Euclidean town sqaure, down a dodgy back alley, where an eldritch couple of debt collectors are lurking.

And Nyarlahotep says:

«Here’s that sick squid I owe you.

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HP Lovecraft and August Derleth are sitting at an al fresco cafe on the abominable plateau of Leng. Sipping absinthe, as you do. It’d be a nice place if it wasn’t for the maddening cyclopean architecture with the obviously alien non-Euclidean geometry, but it’s the only spot for unthinkably vast distances and it’s got a lovely view, so you make do.

As they sit there, the ground before becomes disturbed by the passing of a great Dhole, burrowing beneath the earth, space rippling around it as it goes.

They sip their absinthe as the Dhole is followed by a Mi-Go, flapping and screeching – the noise driving several nearby patrons mad.

A shoggoth comes after, shambling along. It takes some time to pass, so they order another round of absinthe.

Then a long train of the spawn of Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods, ooze, crawl and tilt their way past – the locomotive systems reminiscent of slime running down a rock… but sideways… unthinkably sideways.

Then for a moment, there’s quiet and the plateau is empty… and Derleth turns to Lovecraft and says…

“Good Lord, Howard. Today it’s just one damned thing after another.”

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«You Goth?»

«No, I’m just a Fun Guy»

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Og til slutt, fra en demonstrasjon mot de sprø, sprø nøttene i Westboro Baptist Church: