R'lyeh Sutra Read online

  Martian Migraine Press

  electronic edition 2012

  R’LYEH SUTRA

  © 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

  ISBN 978-0-9879928-4-0

  martianmigrainepress.com

  contents

  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 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 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 glowin
g 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 non-Euclidean 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