Cthulhu - a H.P. Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

My goal is to share a Cthulhu mythos themed poem each and every Monday until the end of March. After that, my focus will switch to another literary great. Look out for that announcement. Here is an edit of a previous reader favourite. Enjoy

"That is not dead which can eternal lie
And with strange aeons, even death may die."
H.P. Lovecraft

I awaken tossed in bracing foam,
Whose subtle fingers turn my stomach's walls.
I cling to what remains of distant home,
Her cradling bed. Her soft and silent halls.

I'm cast on driftwood, sure to meet an end
Soaked and drowning, lone upon this sea,
With sleep no haven, nightmares of descent
Down to some bleak island, ever drawing me.

Mercurial, the sun brings lasting pain,
A lasting thirst, and at last a distant gleam,
And with it distant hope I might be saved,
Or that some land had formed from all my dreams.

Long hours pass. I bob, I drift, I float.
That shore's salvation ever closing now,
The hand of madness loosed from 'round my throat,
I feel God's hands themselves direct my prow.

Though not a faithful man I must consent,
No other explanation crossed my thought,
For how the becalmed sea so smoothly sent
My sail-less vessel swiftly to its port.

I found the land, and found myself more lost.
Her beach a marsh, a slick and muddy mire,
Scattered with rocks and turgid, bulbous moss,
With a taste of pardon, but more of ash and fire. 

Once filled, I walked, and found a dryer course
On which I might just find some better fare,
But all for naught, I found just a barren gorge,
And a sightless cave, more likely something's lair.

Fatigued, I slept beneath the careless sky,
And those unfamiliar stars regarded me,
But did not seem to care I clung to life,
Inconsequential as I seemed to be.

I woke at dawn in darkness, on my feet,
Deep in the black of a vast and hollow earth,
And as my eyes adjusted I could see,
The kind of terror only madness births.

The grisly vision of a mountain spilled
From an ocean void that did not care for man,
Whose foul appearance tore at mortal will,
And mocked the lie of all I think I am.

A writhing face of feelers, slick and foul,
It's body bulbous, tentacled and grand.
It saw me and my heart and pulled me down,
And made it so I could make to stand.

His name, her name, its name, and I awoke,
My bed, my room, my prison in this life.
I smell it still. The briny, awful choke
Of blackened water, masking hidden strife.

This world is done. It scarred my waking days,
And he sits, not live, not dead, but in between,
For those shores to rise, and the stars to light the way
To an end for which he sleeps, and waits and dreams. 




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The Relic, a sonnet by Adam Common, poet

The usurper writhes in her ermine form
 Across the marble tiled floor. The relic
Rests in its place, happy, relaxed, and warm,
 Contented to be so infidelic:
Because its shape is wrong, wrangled from stone,
 Carved with an infinite affectation,
Then flattered and raised upon crimson throne
 So far above its orderly station.
The thief's hands grasp around its graven root,
 Disgraceful in her low and common touch
To treat its stature as prosaic loot
 Shameful for one who bears its beauty such.
  Alas, stolen, scalped and hawked the relic was,
  Despite its many glaring, awful flaws.

The Broken Back, a poem by Adam Common, poet

And there she was,
Resting on the precipice,
My broken backed beauty,
The stuffing slashed from her seats.

My poor lady,
Her burned out husk invaded;
Stolen away, raped and burned,
And left face down in a river.

She'd drowned.

I'd wept for her.
Knees were grass stained for the trek,
The same amble of the lost
That men often walk alone.

Then I returned.
To find her gone, reclaimed
By the city, the river,
That all at once broke her down.

I cried.

To feel her curves,
That rough leather, cold metal,
Steady, assuring voice
I would never hear again.

And so I raged.
Death to my pale enemy,
That thief in the bastard night.
I'd love to take your love from you!

That's all.

What more to do?
She lays as scrap, broken backed,
In some depository,
Buried with her dead brothers,

And I live on,
Rusting and cracking for her,
Rolling downhill on flat tyres,
That never quite leave the road.

Kid(s), a poem by Adam Common, poet

Kids

1. You’d lift your skirt to your knees

To make the climbing easier.

Your hands were rough,

And your face all smudged up;

Grass in your stupid hair,

And in my stupid hair.

We were wilder kids, dumb ‘n dopey,

Smarter than the smart, because

Just because. And we could run,

And fight, fly, and fail, and fall.

And man, didn’t you show me

How to fall the hardest.

2. The crash and wallop turned ache,

The longer kind of unhappy days.

Your skin was cool

And your face all washed out.

Tired, you slept days away,

I waited days away

And we were quieter kids, sad and sorry,

Drifting ignorant, because

Just because. What did we know?

What hope could hope provide?

And man didn’t you show me

How hopeless I could be?

3. Your room seemed to hollow then;

Walls further apart that before,

The corners darker,

And much more of a home.

We watched films, while

I watched you thin

And we were emptier kids, pale and shallow,

Waiting time away, because

Just because. What else was there?

What useful time remained?

And man, didn’t you show me

How precious time could be?

4. So I learn a loneliness

That would follow me forever.

My hands turned rough,

My face all wrinkled up;

Grey in my stupid hair,

And in my stupid heart.

Made a wild kid, dumb and dopey,

More ignorant than smart, because

Just because. And I would run,

And fight. I would fly, fail, and fall

With no safety net to catch me,

But I wouldn’t be bruised at all,

Because you were gone,

And so went weakness.

And man, didn’t it make me

Weaker than before?

5. The “you” would appear in dreams at first,

Distant, watching from where I couldn’t reach,

Eyes wide. Furious. Accusing.

But It had been given life by what?

Madness. That empty space filled

With you. Your face. Your voice and smell.

Your hate, your taunting laugh

Making a mockery of your memory.

I’d wake and collapse in on myself,

A broken bubble, guts a dying star,

And I’d begin to fear

What else sleep might take from us.

But It showed me it was stupid,

Like I am stupid, and had returned

To the living, waking world just for my eyes

And for my benefit alone.

Seventeen years of this. The “you” exists.

It ages. It changes and I forget

What you looked like when we were wilder kids,

And how you were when you were really alive.

And I was just a kid, rapt and grateful,

Horrified and broken by the chance

To make clear that I cared for you

In that awful, mediocre way

That a kid like me is capable of.

My best friend. My only friend.

And It listened, and It smiled,

And the smile is only cruel.

And man, don’t I wish
You would die.

5. Kid(s) Coda

5. The “you” would appear in dreams at first,
Distant, watching from where I couldn’t reach,
Eyes wide. Furious. Accusing.
But It had been given life by what?

Madness. That empty space filled
With you. Your face. Your voice and smell.
Your hate, your taunting laugh
Making a mockery of your memory.

I’d wake and collapse in on myself,
A broken bubble, guts a dying star,
And I’d begin to fear
What else sleep might take from us.

But It showed me it was stupid,
Like I am stupid, and had returned
To the living, waking world just for my eyes
And for my benefit alone.

Seventeen years of this. The “you” exists.
It ages. It changes and I forget
What you looked like when we were wilder kids,
And how you were when you were really alive.

And I was just a kid, rapt and grateful,
Horrified and broken by the chance
To make clear that I cared for you
In that awful, mediocre way
That a kid like me is capable of.
My best friend. My only friend.
And It listened, and It smiled,
And the smile is only cruel.

And man, don’t I wish “you’d” die.

4. Kid, a poem by Adam Common, poet

4. So I learn a loneliness
That would follow me forever.
My hands turned rough,
My face all wrinkled up;

Grey in my stupid hair,
And in my stupid heart.

Made a wild kid, dumb and dopey,
More ignorant than smart, because
Just because. And I would run,
And fight. I’d fly, fail, and fall
With no safety net to catch me,
But I wouldn’t be bruised at all,
Because you were gone,
And so went “weakness.”

And man, didn’t it make me
Weaker than before?

3. Emptier Kids, a poem by Adam Common

3. Your room seemed to hollow then;

Walls further apart that before,
The corners darker,
And much more of a home.

We watched films, while
I watched you thin

And we were emptier kids, pale and shallow,
Waiting time away, because
Just because. What else was there?
What useful time remained?

And man, didn’t you show me
How precious time could be?

Triversen #1, a poem by Adam Common

You choleric breath offends me;
Twists once happier guts
Around its vicious screws.

Your relentless mard-arsed stare
Burns only at the walls,
And creeps heat through the edges.

Fidgeting work hewn fingers
Plays tiny little moves
In a pointless, losing game.

Daylight quickly fails.
Sentiment follows the sun,
Vanishing beyond the horizon.

Four in the morning sprints close.
Bundled quilt between us.
I sense your eyes still open.

Nothing good comes of silence.
Our apologies rankle and itch,
Bothering our stubborn bones.

Exhaustion leads to sleep.
Dreams of a phantom always;
A promise meant to keep.

Morning light repairs all wounds.

The bitter engine out of gas, so

We're back to smiles and kisses.

We heal strong, once our vexing love
Has blown an angry load
That turns waning days to ash.

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Tattered King on a Brick Road, a poem by Adam Common, poet

Well worn, the bricks aren't solid colour,
Their standard terracotta insides show,
Hinting at many dark, obsessive hours
Spent painting yellow the miles long road.

Who laid out your chaotic cobblestones,
Your impossible looking layout,
Bending thoughts away from a need to rest,
Casting the surrounding beauty in doubt.

After all, there is nothing but this road,
This winding way through hills and growling woods,
Whose path must not be left; Can not be left,
'Til an end that must be reached for ill or good.

In the distance, I see the tower
And all that lies between us on the way.
I see the man; the tattered, bandaged man,
With his paper crown and skin stained grey.

I see the puddles of rusty rain,
Set to stain these worn white shoes ruby red.
I see him crouched, brush in hand, stroking the bricks
'Til he would deem every yellowed stone repaired.

1. Wilder Kids & 2. Quieter Kids, a poem by Adam Common, poet

1. You’d lift your skirt to your knees

To make the climbing easier.

Your hands were rough,

And your face all smudged up;

Grass in your stupid hair,

And in my stupid hair.

We were wilder kids, dumb ‘n dopey,

Smarter than the smart, because

Just because. And we could run,

And fight, fly, and fail, and fall.

And man, didn’t you show me

How to fall the hardest.

***

2. The crash and wallop turned ache,

The longer kind of unhappy days.

Your skin was cool

And your face all washed out.

Tired, you slept days away,

I waited days away

And we were quieter kids, sad and sorry,

Drifting ignorant, because

Just because. What did we know?

What hope could hope provide?

And man didn’t you show me

How hopeless I could be?

Down by the river, a poem by Adam Common, poet

On a flat-broke day in Spring,
I skipped sideways down the hillock
To search through the busted back of
A burnt-out stolen Volkswagen,
Once dumped unceremoniously
Down by the river, next to the tree.

I found a wet, old raz-mag,
And a bag with the bones of a dog in it,
Which made me quite upset,

I sold both to some other kids,
And bought myself a "Caramac,"
Which I'd never tried before
And tasted so sickly and vile
That when the company went away,
I celebrated with a Dairy Milk.

Year on year it sank deeper,
Collecting rain, and new tossed treasures
In its spacious, family-sized boot.

Like a time capsule it filled, until
I skipped sideways down the hillock
And found a hole, partly filled
With gravel and river water,
And giant tire tracks leading away
To a place I couldn't follow.

Frogs, a Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

Nice things include sunshine and flowers,
Whose beams and petals can be poisonous
To both men and frogs.

Bubbling skin presents in the first case,
The light of day anathema to our lives,
Proof that open sky rejects us all,
Without preamble or prejudice
Shining on through matt or glossy skin alike.

In the second, the pretty leaves tempt,
Flexing those skin-like cups in mockery,
Welcoming us to touch. To taste. To swallow.
She mines the bowel, growing roots that corrupt,
Branching out her death elegantly.

This way, I appreciate my enemy,
His glazed, inhuman eyes familiar
Through our twice shared vulnerabilities.
Somehow, it allows me to kill him better,
Knowing just how very alike we are.

Click, a poem by Adam Common, poet

The night ends with each sombre click;
I am blighted; hung up on, sad and sick.

They tumble around the tenebrous muck
That clouds the evening; giggling kobolds,
grave goblins all gathered among my junk.

There, you doze. Right there, swimming in it.
Madness abundant, and you're sleeping as if
Nothing is happening, because
Nothing is happening, and I find that
So hard to understand.

Your fingers curl around the sheets,
And your breath comes deep and heavy;
Growing peace from peace
Like it's so simple to do,
Like tiredness means closing your eyes
Can make it all go away.

They twirl.
One of them laughs suddenly.
I jump.

My brow is plowed earth cresting a rise,
Mouth pressed and pursed in to the mattress.
The tingle and ache. The cold air.
The cringe inducing touch of wet hair on
My back, my neck, my face, my thought.
The all-overs leak all over me.

My stomach criss-crossed with the map
Of creased and crumpled sheets.
Still, nothing is happening, because
Nothing is happening, and I find that
So hard to understand.

They tumble around the joyless dusky mire,
That shades the morning, cackling gremlins,
Simpering sprites, digging through my clothes.

The morning comes with a sombre click,
And I am sleeping; exhausted, sad and sick.

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Bit Bleak, a poem by Adam White

I fear
And the fear is an endless thing
Spelled out with the first letters from all the lovely names
Twisting uncomfortably back into memory
With a pointed, corkscrew tip
And so ruined
Ruinous?
Ruined.
That I don’t know if any of its smeared curves
Are forged of the real or the false
So rapt
Ensnared by the wonder of it
I carve and scratch a listless evening away on paper
Twisting uncomfortably back into memory
With a pointed, corkscrew tip