crosses, erotic poetry, great love drug, horror, lewd eldritch horror, more than just spilled ink, poem, quote unquote, sex-hating freak, sonnet, Walt Whitman
Eldritch horror, mon amour. You lewd beast.
Ten inch tentacles. Phat cunt bravado.
You ooze more than swagger. In films a priest
gets called in, no sex-hating freak (although
he’s all that, too), for an exorcism.
I think of this watching the line of light
beneath my bedroom door. My heart’s rhythm
skips each time your shadow crosses it. Right
now there’s nothing more arousing. Horror
is my great love drug. I’d invite you in,
if I could, but I don’t. You’re indifferent
to my needs. In films the priest has power
over sin. In my world the priest is sin.
I’m in bed, dreaming of your eldritch cunt.
The term, “eldritch horror,” comes from H.P. Lovecraft, who wrote about the complete irrelevance of mankind in the face of cosmic gods. The ocean is the closest thing I’ll ever get to that divine indifference; the great power that moves all life on this planet, from where we originated and completely apathetic to mankind’s prayers or needs. Man-made gods are just that; always curiously obsessed with humans, they have laws and pass judgment, they are angry or merciful, they save souls, things that only humans care about. We are a species that make up just 0.01% of life on Earth. Why would the divine exclude that other 99.99%? They don’t since they exist not to coddle human egos but to hold the universe together. Animals know this. As Walt Whitman pointed out, “They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,/ They do not make me sick discussing their duty to god,/ Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,/ … not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.” That’s my rock and faith.