The Lovesong of J. Alfred Shoggoth
Yesterday, 
ashbet mentioned this bit of ridiculousness I did in 2004 and I finally went back and found it. And so, I post it.
Presented with the same apologies to T.S.Eliot.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Shoggoth
S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out across the tide
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in dread R'lyeh where Cthulthu sleeps
And sawdust restaurants with Cyprus shells,
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and eat the world.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Nyarlathotep.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of your brain,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and drove mad everyone inside.
And indeed there will be time
For in the endless ages even death may die,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare to meet the color out of space,
There will be time to murder and eat,
And time for all the works and nights of tentacles
That lift and drop your life upon their plate;
Time for Azathoth and time for Yog-Sothoth.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of the world and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Nyarlathotep.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair to the Plateau of Leng,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his tentacles are growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the rapacious maw,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his tentacles and tentacles are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with the Hounds of Tinadalos;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music of a farther doom.
So how should I consume your soul?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I consume?
And I have known the tentacles already, known them all--
Tentacles that are braceleted and green and bare
[But in the lamplight glistening with water from the deep!]
Is it perfume from an abyss
That makes me so digress?
Tentacles that lie along a table, or wrap about a meal.
And should I then consume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows, before I consume them? . . .
I should have been a lot of ragged tentacles
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here in dread R'lyeh beside you and me.
Should I, after planets and asteroids and comets,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and ate,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was hungry.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the planets, the asteroids, the comets,
Among the brine, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Cthulthu, come from the dead,
Come back to eat you all, I shall eat you all"--
If one, settling a scream inside her head,
Should say: "Hastur. Hastur."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"Hastur, Hastur."
. . . . .
No! I am not Shub-Niggurath, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell an ocean, start a cult or two,
Consume the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and ravenous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Doom.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my tentacles rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat the world?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and slither upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me, because I will eat them.
I have seen the doom of the world riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we eat them.
This entry was originally posted at http://onceupon.dreamwidth.org/1266713.html.
ashbet mentioned this bit of ridiculousness I did in 2004 and I finally went back and found it. And so, I post it.
Presented with the same apologies to T.S.Eliot.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Shoggoth
S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out across the tide
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in dread R'lyeh where Cthulthu sleeps
And sawdust restaurants with Cyprus shells,
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and eat the world.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Nyarlathotep.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of your brain,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and drove mad everyone inside.
And indeed there will be time
For in the endless ages even death may die,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare to meet the color out of space,
There will be time to murder and eat,
And time for all the works and nights of tentacles
That lift and drop your life upon their plate;
Time for Azathoth and time for Yog-Sothoth.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of the world and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Nyarlathotep.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair to the Plateau of Leng,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his tentacles are growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the rapacious maw,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his tentacles and tentacles are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with the Hounds of Tinadalos;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music of a farther doom.
So how should I consume your soul?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I consume?
And I have known the tentacles already, known them all--
Tentacles that are braceleted and green and bare
[But in the lamplight glistening with water from the deep!]
Is it perfume from an abyss
That makes me so digress?
Tentacles that lie along a table, or wrap about a meal.
And should I then consume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows, before I consume them? . . .
I should have been a lot of ragged tentacles
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here in dread R'lyeh beside you and me.
Should I, after planets and asteroids and comets,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and ate,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was hungry.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the planets, the asteroids, the comets,
Among the brine, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Cthulthu, come from the dead,
Come back to eat you all, I shall eat you all"--
If one, settling a scream inside her head,
Should say: "Hastur. Hastur."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"Hastur, Hastur."
. . . . .
No! I am not Shub-Niggurath, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell an ocean, start a cult or two,
Consume the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and ravenous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Doom.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my tentacles rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat the world?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and slither upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me, because I will eat them.
I have seen the doom of the world riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we eat them.
This entry was originally posted at http://onceupon.dreamwidth.org/1266713.html.