Authors: Skawt Chonzz
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Horror, #Occult, #Poetry, #Regional & Cultural, #45 Minutes (22-32 Pages)
Martian Migraine Press
electronic edition 2012
© 2012 Scott Raymond Jones
All Copyrights held by Scott Raymond Jones
All poems and artwork contained in this electronic edition originally appeared in a limited run chapbook by Scott Raymond Jones (writing as “skawt chonzz”): R’lyeh Sutra (2011)
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author or Martian Migraine Press, except brief passages for purposes of review.
skawt chonzz / 1972 -
R’lyeh Sutra / skawt chonzz
Y’HA-NTHLEI-KUS (haiku from Below)
plate / DAGON (Gargouille de la Mer)
The drowned hyper-opolis of R’lyeh, vast and terrible, beyond rational understanding, boiling with fractal connectivity and vibrating on every level of so-called Reality (
, if we’re to be painfully honest, and we are, always), its non-Euclidean architecture an assault on lower-order mammalian perception, its migraine towers and impossible arches and obsidian middens awash in the febrile submarine light that characterizes the depths of the Unconscious.
R’lyeh! The first city, the dreaming city, the mad city of unspoken terrors and fevered ecstasies. R’lyeh! The infinite suburbs of existential mirror-muck, sprawling slums constructed of discarded, croaking anti-languages, laced over with living circuitry telepathically transmitting a constant insect-chitter stream of flash-cut reverse-universe pornography. R’lyeh! Suppurating districts of unspeakable shopping malls that give ferocious new meaning to consumption and thumping hyperdimensional everlasting-night clubs, every bouncer a shoggoth, every dancer a coruscating chaos of perversion and alien sensuality. R’lyeh! Mausoleum and corpse-throne capital city of Great Cthulhu, Lord of Dreams, High Priest of All That Is Not, of the Forgotten Ones and Those Who Whisper Behind the Light. Cthulhu, who is dead but dreaming.
R’lyeh. My home.
Upon my death, drop my cold flesh at these coordinates -- 47° 9’ S 126° 43’ W -- and let me sink through green leagues to that place where thought is obliterated, where form is plastic, where dreams are solid and unyielding as stone. There will I wait, in that lair of the untranslatable, for the return of the Great Old Ones and the remaking of the world in fire and in ice. I will rise with R’lyeh when the stars come right.
The shamans who work their primal magics in the Bon-po tradition of Tibetan Buddhism undergo what they call the
ritual, in which the body is brutally dismembered by wrathful demons. In this way they learn to not identify with the physical, to transcend the limitations of the material. From this, and from our own wracked imagination-factories, we can infer that there is enlightenment in horror, and in the extremes of fear may be found a moment of pure, one-pointed awareness. That awe-full clarity.
This is the Black Gnosis: when all is madness, there is no madness.
This is the R’lyeh Sutra.
Hour of the Spastic Mandala
Threshold 616 – Western Lands Border Checkpoint
Victoria, British Columbia
fever dreams of impossible couplings
and the frictioned frisson
that arises with fear
of dissolution in desire
the body soul spirit or whatever this is
we can say fuck it
fuck it eternally
and with preternatural gusto
render our organs into paste
our zones radioactive
we discard this imagined duality
and screw to the sound
of recombinant DNA
that buzzsaw serenade
herald of molecular consciousness singing
do you want me?
do you want me baby?
the ancestral pools from which
we crawled a million kalpas past
quake in their hot granite beds
our climax fractal on every coiled level
a migraine pleasure mutating the constellations
before our black pulsing Hiroshima eyes
we fuck til the stars come right
fuck til the stars come
the stars right
the Old Ones all
they and the little stars
of scar tissue like a thousand
eager mouths upon your skin singing
do you want me? do you want me baby?
these scorched phallic dimensions?
these smoke-filled bowers?
these ember eyes?
this mad whispered arson?
in the fires of Time
we are no exception
and the things Man was not meant to know
are written in our mingled fluid code
our boiling kalas in the red crucible
we the rough beast howling lust
at our mutual clawed consummation
lapping at the bright blood
of murdered suns
Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate, whereby the spheres meet(1) ... his Globes be (seven) in number, have diverse names ... forms ... they are the powers of the parasite-horde ... his servitors and do his bidding in the world ... and then he will come to you and bring his Globes and he will give true answer to all you desire to know(2).
1H P Lovecraft, The Dunwich Horror
2Wilson / Hay The Book of Dead Names
>> globe.01 / GOMORY / golden crowned camel
/ knowledge of magical talismans
>> in her hands she brought me onyx jade silver
colours of a north pacific winter
socked in with cedar and damp
we waited like stones
a knotted black cord round her left wrist
promise of laboured breathing in dark humid corners
>> globe.02 / ZAGAN / great bull &/or terrible King
/ mysteries of the sea
>> croaking allegiances with the landotter people
servile phantom intelligences languishing
in ghost-houses under the waves
half-tales round the fire
built of dream fragments and shell casings
recall that incest has always been the privilege of royalty
>> globe.03 / SYTRY / demon Prince (60 legions)
/ knowledge of times to come
>> radios squawking unkind things in the twilight
tungsten revelations suspended in glass
all our molecules agitated
by high-energy attack`
dancing the twitch the spastic the tremens
velocity of sparrows and the tragic hive collapse
>> globe.04 / ELIGOR / red man with iron crown
/ victory in war
>> we launch glowing feral ordinance into the singularity
gamma ray protests against our own weakness