R'lyeh Sutra by Skawt Chonzz

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.