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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 ISBN 978-0-9879928-4-0
47° 9’ S 126° 43’ W 4EVA SUBCUTANEOUS HENTAI BLUES YOG-SOTHOTH PROTOCOLS plate / LORD OF DREAMS DREAM OF A THOUSAND PAPERCUTS ATCHISON TOPEKA & SANTA FE Y’HA-NTHLEI-KUS (haiku from Below) plate / DAGON (Gargouille de la Mer) GOOD TIMES IN BAD LANDS QUARANTINE BULLETIN THE TRITON’S LAMENT LIKE SOUND, ONLY ULTRA CLASSIFIED
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 (r’lyeh-ity, 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 antilanguages, 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 chöd 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.
skawt chonzz Hour of the Spastic Mandala Threshold 616 – Western Lands Border Checkpoint Victoria, British Columbia March 2011
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 recombining 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 are fucked
stars come unstuck fuck (so come) welcome them 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? everything burns 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 between our fingers
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 these grenades blow up inside journals not yet written your sweat tastes like shrapnel and orphans to fight is to grow rich inch by incidental inch >> globe.05 / DURSON / raven (22 familiar demons) / reveals occult secrets >> this hollowed earth oratory suspiciously lacking in echo neon grimoires spilled over spread sheets womb imagery coiled beneath barcodes and bright plastic it’s the migraine discretion of the addict we feel all our whispers soundbit with zero nutritional value >> globe.06 / VUAL / a dark cloud / all manner of ancient tongues >> Time locks down around us by each tumblered second all words save those of binding lost the cannibalized libraries sigh in stiff late-autumn austerities chew on this lotus and consult the book of hours our language is born of magma hiss and raptor scratch >> globe.07 / ANABOTH / yellow toad / tells of strange and hidden things >> secret gods of closet moon and discarded sunken city nautiloid eyes pick photons out of the black I am seventeen hesitations at the sight of your discarded promise bleached whalebone splinters under my nails I consign to the forest loam your onyx jade silver
In the original conception of R’lyeh Sutra, the following centrefold piece was imagined as a charming pop-up feature. The reader, upon reaching the middle of the chapbook, would be treated to / assaulted by a complex origami eidolon of Cthulhu, unfolding crisply from His tomb and ready for worship. However, after a week of horror on the factory floor, seeing my staff of migrant workers messily absorbed, one after the other, into the howling voids concealed behind the paper-cut-thin nonEuclidean angles of the cursed pop-up, I realized that costs needed to be cut somewhere. And so, Plan B: the Atchison Topeka & Santa Fe. An asemic spell in three parts, the Atchison Topeka & Santa Fe began as a long night of automatic writing. The Atchison: a channelled text from either an ultra-terrestrial entity with whom I have had a long history of possession/collaboration, or an autonomous ego splinter ejected from a psyche fractured by many years of sorcerous practice (a distinction entirely dependent on what floats your own ontological boat), this ‘meaningless’ document was written on a roll of newsprint. The session lasted four hours, peppered with blackouts, glossolalia and fugue states. Nine feet of newsprint was filled. I may have eaten something horrible in there somewhere, too; the next morning I had a rough time removing some nameless blue froth that had crusted at the corners of my mouth, and my breath was redolent of ozone and grave clay. Possession can be hard on a body, natch. (On a purely academic level, The Atchison reminds us of the essentially magical nature of writing. As that other black book tells us, in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was, if not God, then at least Its closest approximation this side of the Shining Realms. Language is Reality. What sort of reality does The Atchison describe? Who reads this writing? On what walls?) The Topeka: the document was then sectioned and trimmed to size for the chapbook. Each copy of R’lyeh Sutra contains a section of the whole. Each section is unique. You hold in your hands an authentic occult artifact, similar to but unlike the others. If you got one with a sigil, bonus. Good for you. The Santa Fe: as the chapbooks are sold, gifted, stolen, discarded and otherwise dispersed through time and space from the moment of their creation, I imagine that the gaps between the sections of the original document will generate a certain quantum tension, a longing. It is this longing of the parts for the whole (coloured by the wonder, confusion, possibly the disdain, of the reader) which will provide energy for the spell to do its work upon the base code of whatever-this-is. Perhaps at some point in the imagined future, the chapbooks may come together again. I’m not sure I’d want to be there when that happens. And the nature of the spell, the true purpose of the Atchison Topeka and Santa Fe? Well, that would be telling. ELECTRONIC EDITION NOTE: the following graphic depicts a single section of The Atchison, one not included in the original paper chapbook edition. Clicking on the link above will, if the reader has their browser enabled, take them to a web page with further samples of The Atchison, on a randomized
setting. Though not as unique as the original paper edition, I hope that this feature will provide the reader of this electronic version of R’lyeh Sutra with a similar experience.
Hounds of Tindalos coming in from mad corners blue froth stains my mind Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Fertile horror! Goddess-thing! I’m (somewhat) aroused Bells in the green deep tolling for the Forgotten shivers down the spine the Brown Jenkin: loathsome abomination? Or kinky sex move! Picture in the house: “victuals yew cain’t raise nor buy!” What’s that ceiling stain?
Behind the wheel of an industrial hovercraft, freight-hauling across a blasted desertscape of flattened brush, salt pans and black-blue onyx shale. On the seat next to me Astrid kneels, posing like a fetish Varga Girl, legs tucked beneath her, explosion of copper hair a halo of fire. She pouts. She's wearing a white rubber catsuit of some kind but it's obviously practical for the environment we're travelling through, there are tubes pulsing with some clear liquid criss-crossing her form and flat mesh panels at her abdomen, thighs and neck. She licks her lips and I laugh heartily. I am wearing a similar suit, black, cool against my skin. A screen set into the dash flickers to light. Alex's face fills the screen. He is wearing communication headgear and rectangular implants in his forehead designate his rank, which is high. "Agent Landotter, Agent Stargrave. You've got a stowaway. In the back." I angle the rearview mirror while Astrid turns around to look. In the flatbed behind us, there is a barely discernible numinous form trying to conceal itself behind a stack of battered metal cases. "Well, fuck," I say. "I thought this run was s'posed to be clean! Who do these disincarnates think they are? I mean, what's it want?" Alex is impatient. "What does anything imaginary want? A little more reality. Early telemetry suggests a possible origin in the post-eschaton. I need you to deal with this futurist asshole before it condenses." "I'm on it!" Astrid squeaks. She smiles, flash of terrible white teeth, some of which are filed to points. She reaches for a zipper just below her navel and pulls it down, reaches behind her with her other hand to grasp the tab and pull it up her backside. Then she folds the white rubber aside to her inner thighs and snaps it tight on metal grommets set into the rubber. Her pubic hairs spring forth, a forest of tiny peacock feathers, dripping with moisture. The cab of the hovercraft fills with her scent. Seawater and stars. She displays herself to me, little violet pucker and dripping folds, improbable iridescent feathers, and I feel myself getting hard. "Gawd! I'm sooo horny! Gonna fuck that thing into oblivion, see if I don't!" she hoots, as I toggle a switch that evaporates the roof of the cab. Like that it's gone. Blast furnace of endless desert heat momentarily dries her moist pussy before her internal systems compensate. The rush of sparkling fluid that results is phenomenal, a real testament to the wonders of bionic augmentation. The seat is soaked beneath her. She fingers herself, dipping between the feathers, and coos. "What if it's female?" I ask, panting. Astrid opens a storage compartment in the dash, extracts a fearsome strap-on dildo, slips it over her legs, fits it to her waist. Servos in the mechanism whine and the dildo snaps open at the base, swings upward, tucks its steel head into the depression of her navel, pressing hard. She sighs with pleasure. She turns around, puts her feet against the dash, legs flexing, coiled, hands clawing the back of the seat, she winks at me. "Kam-pai!" she shrieks and launches herself out of the cab into the flatbed.
In the rearview I have a brief impression of a giggling Astrid pinning herself onto or into a writhing phosphorescent cloud before light bleeds in from all directions erasing my sight. There is only sound now: hum and crackle of hovercraft engines, scream of hot air passing at speed, Astrid and the stowaway howling, the disembodied voice of Alex from the speakers, aching with pride. "Attagirl, Agent Stargrave. Attagirl."
attention all writers / poets / scribes / scribblers we regret to inform you that the viral infection known as LANGUAGE has fully colonized your frontal lobes, your community and in fact, your entire world the virus is aggressive, territorial, and comes complete with a variety of defensive measures, the most effective being a time-tested mechanism of symbiotic ego-complex re-inforcement, which causes the host to believe that the semiotic spew that serves as an infection vector for LANGUAGE is in fact the result of the hosts own creative process, and not the random linguistic spasm that it is if the result is sometimes beautiful or wanders, crippled, towards the significant this is only a happy accident and should not be taken as evidence of worth only the side effect of a full-blown LANGUAGE infection should you find yourself producing poetry in public or constructing tortured prose sculptures in your basement muttering “it means something!” to worried family and friends should you come to consciousness on a stage, behind a microphone, halfway through some slammed piece of sorry spoken word put your head between your knees breathe deeply check your heart rate and then burn all papers and notebooks bury all pens pencils and crayons render all keyboards useless with the liberal application of honey or semen put a rock through your computer screen and most importantly
shut up immediately here in the Silence, we are aware of the irony in transmitting this bulletin to you through the viral pathway itself, but we are limited by your own perceptual boundaries we would like to assure you that we are devoting all of our considerable resources to the development of a cure for LANGUAGE and relief for your lamentable condition currently it comes in spray form cherry, grape, or lemon flavor and renders the hosts tongue and throat tissues into a stringy mass of inert, weakened fibres fit only for shallow breathing and perhaps the passage of pre-chewed food beta testing continues in the meantime consider yourself under QUARANTINE until further notice
When we moved about on the rank floors of the ocean, we were better. Wiser under the pressure. A thousand thousand atmospheres bearing down on our bodies, our armoured shells, left no room for any thought that was not perfect. All our desires made iron, our glories inviolate, our movements full of slow grace. Back then we knew things, things we cannot know now. The deep things of the Deep Ones. Sacred and lugubrious, the conch shells sounding in the benthic zone, each chamber a league across, blown by what unthinkable lips, what improbably brine-choked lungs? A sound that rivaled the death rattle of suns, sending the sweetest thrill across our photophore-studded leather skins. We glowed like afterthoughts discarded on the silty carpet. Our eyes were black and shining. We were savage, but our savagery played itself out over millennia, our violence knew patience. Miles deep, we could hear the planet turning on its axis, hear it grumble straight down to its incandescent core. In this way, by eavesdropping, we learned of revolutions. We were better. There was terror there and we knew it for what it was, which is wisdom most ancient. Our eyes were black and shining and flinched at nothing. Gods routinely drifted from above, first this way, then that, toys of the long-suffering current, finally settling in the muck, long dead. Nothing was wasted there, we were always fed. Our bodies shifted and slid across each other like quantities of molten granite. We were better then. We were the keepers. Keepers of secrets, of codes, of forgotten speech. Words that were keys, that are keys still. Words stored away in a spinal lattice nine miles long, our ribs like girders singing in the flux. Now we are constructed of foolish liquids, our lungs flap like injured sparrows at each easy intake of air. Slender pipes and crusts of bone support us, our teeth are bits of chalk. Our thoughts, once solid and ever-lasting, are as dust, debris. They sift through minds that cannot grasp and hold with certainty a single notion. We fumble at the locks, dimly recalling that once we were masters, that once we held the keys. Our missteps, when they are not completely banal, are catastrophic. The sunken trenches wail for all that has been lost
the resolution is necessarily poor but the results are in even so no webbing between the toes no horns sprouting from the head no quivering dorsal spines dripping with potent neurotoxins no prehensile tail no dew claws no claws at all the third eye is right where it should be hidden, lodged securely between only two hemispheres and not, amazingly, flailing about on a stalk thrust obscenely into the world I wonder at its secret activity no bony plates no gill flaps no tightly folded wings all membrane and cartilage no tentacles no hyper-chakras just seven regular chakras my first born I slide this portrait into my wallet
the feeling is not exactly relief but not quite disappointment either and somewhere in there is a resolution necessarily poor to have a chat with my gods about those papers I signed
About the Author
skawt chonzz is a Plutonian crime lord, a profession that corresponds to Poet/Spoken Word Artist here on Earth, where he is currently hiding under a witness protection program. skawt misses Pluto, particularly the summer time, when the weather gets slightly warmer, and the super-conductive algae fields glow in the feeble starlight. Someday, he’ll go back. In the meantime, he continues to engage in heinous poetry crime and is amazed that this continues to be popular on this planet. He hopes that someday we’ll learn. skawt has been a member of the 2009 Victoria Slam Team and the Artistic Director of Tongues of Fire, a poetry collective/crime syndicate in Victoria BC from 2009 through 2011.
About Martian Migraine Press
We are an independent Canadian micro-press with a focus on the weird, unusual and occasionally transgressive. Fiction that plays with boundaries before ignoring them altogether; erotica with dark humour and a taste for the outré, YA novels for the reader who needs a good dose of ideas with their adventure; and poetry for people from other planets. Martian Migraine books are available almost exclusively in e-reader formats through the usual fine online retailers, although we sometimes make forays into producing physical books and chapbooks in limited press runs. Mostly when we’re feeling nostalgic.
Martian Migraine Press: the Best Kind of Headache
Look for new Martian Migraine Press titles throughout 2012, including YA paranormal fiction from Haley Warren and the Blackstone series of erotica ebooks by Justine Geoffrey
Be sure to check out these other Martian Migraine Press titles…
SOFT FROM ALL THE BLOOD by S R Jones
THE ECDYSIASTS by S R Jones
RED MONOLITH FRENZY Book One of the BLACKSTONE Erotic Series by Justine G
GREEN FEVER DREAM Book Two of the BLACKSTONE Erotic Series by Justine G
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