|Someone wants to fillet Lovecraft and serve him up,
someone wants his head on a platter, a weird trophy.
It makes me want to read him again, like I did Dante
when Gherush92 found him unsuited to the academy
they wished passages excised, it sounded very painful.
Post-literacy is complex, writers no longer read but they
manage to seed adequate trifling books, empty things
that are cut off from history, stuff that wouldn’t rise a
hair on a mouse.
They cannot stand offence, hair-triggers are embedded in
every single text, it’ll be trigger-warnings next. Art must be
vague. It must reject the psychogeography of the artist and
empty itself of all meaning to suit the post literate non-reader.
They’ll pastel the woods, dock the leaves, blotting the dark
out. Soon there’ll be no interior maps, just the inane mufflings
of some coked-out artist bought by Hollywood seeking a stage
for their tired crap. Someone will have to bring Lovecraft back.
The new academy is post-literate, easy to offence, they tried
to swing Dante from the same root, the same diseased tree
of political propriety. Their stamp is a sliding shoe shuffle,
their platform, an easy media with time on their hands, the
bored crowd fattened on psychopathy and too manic to move.
Someone takes offence at Lovecraftian lore, makes me want
to read him again. To hood myself and go to those nameless
places where genetic aberration and weird alien-fucking are
the norm, where mottled and dusty books wait in dank houses
and the church of despair is a slimey cathedral. To read about
Yibb–Tstll, Olkoth, The Nameless City. To read about the endless
rot of the endless night, his dank woods.
They eviscerated Plath, twisting her words out of their meaning.
Whitman is too gay for school. While Houellebecq’s dark ranting
has people panting for some arbitrary justice. All their songs rejected,
ignored. Imagination is dark, always will be. The poet suicides
who take up their places in the anti-Parthenon; their cold grip, the
bird claw in your shoulder are taloned antis; anti-humour, anti-light,
Far better indeed to stick it all in some briefcase, your tired theories,
than to look, really look, at what they created from loathing, from fear.
Those dark depression raptors, those death birds, yet someone is
trying to kill Lovecraft, and have his head on their simple stoneware.
Someone thinks hate kills hate.
Someone wants Lovecraft’s Head is © C. Murray, first published in And Agamemnon Dead, an alternative collection of Irish poetry (2015).