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Acolyte, v. 3, issue 2, whole no. 11, Summer 1945
Page 18
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The Intruder I think, as I sit here and write, That something has sneaked behind my back To read my words, something black, Evil, and a part of night. I will not turn, for I might see His face, and knowing what he is At last trade part of me for what is his. Perhaps it is my destiny To loose my grip on words and things, And travel down an easy stair, And step on carcasses thrown there That once walked by as kings Or clergymen or peers or saints, Who looked behind and caught the gleam Beneath his lids, and joined the team Of goodness that he kisses, taints, Divests each one, and lets each shell Tremble, giggle, and suddenly fall, When there is nothing there at all Of heaven, and everything of hell. I have not turned, although his tongue Now seeks my neck. His breath is warm, Suggestive of internal storm Without the strength of thunder hung On ever cloud to rumble, "Get Inside a house, under a stronger roof!" I have not turned. I am aloof. I have not turned....as yet. --Margaret Stavely INTERLUDE WITH LOVECRAFT. (cont.) Immortals, each with his stupendous understanding of life, creation and the universe; each the complement of the other in realms and dimensions and planes undreamed. I cannot but wonder if the Great God Lovecraft is now enthroned with the God of Gods, telling him chilling, enthralling tales of mankind and the demoniacal deeds of that dire, dread, planet-spawned, earthbound biped; telling him and his fellow gods the horrific, spine-freezing truth about the erratic mammal whose feet tread the earth but who betimes sends his soul avoyaging through the starry vastness; tales of the two-legged mystery incarnate who caresses with one hand and kills with the other! Undoubtedly the gods find Lovecraft's sagas equally as exciting and intriguing as do his fellow men. They They come in dreams, these little ones. They live in black and twisted roots And rise against a spongy moon And play on timeless, phantom flutes. They spread their thin and stringy arms. They clasp you close to crucify. And then you too shall be as they... The pale green ones who cannot die. ---Ruby Diehr -- 18 --
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The Intruder I think, as I sit here and write, That something has sneaked behind my back To read my words, something black, Evil, and a part of night. I will not turn, for I might see His face, and knowing what he is At last trade part of me for what is his. Perhaps it is my destiny To loose my grip on words and things, And travel down an easy stair, And step on carcasses thrown there That once walked by as kings Or clergymen or peers or saints, Who looked behind and caught the gleam Beneath his lids, and joined the team Of goodness that he kisses, taints, Divests each one, and lets each shell Tremble, giggle, and suddenly fall, When there is nothing there at all Of heaven, and everything of hell. I have not turned, although his tongue Now seeks my neck. His breath is warm, Suggestive of internal storm Without the strength of thunder hung On ever cloud to rumble, "Get Inside a house, under a stronger roof!" I have not turned. I am aloof. I have not turned....as yet. --Margaret Stavely INTERLUDE WITH LOVECRAFT. (cont.) Immortals, each with his stupendous understanding of life, creation and the universe; each the complement of the other in realms and dimensions and planes undreamed. I cannot but wonder if the Great God Lovecraft is now enthroned with the God of Gods, telling him chilling, enthralling tales of mankind and the demoniacal deeds of that dire, dread, planet-spawned, earthbound biped; telling him and his fellow gods the horrific, spine-freezing truth about the erratic mammal whose feet tread the earth but who betimes sends his soul avoyaging through the starry vastness; tales of the two-legged mystery incarnate who caresses with one hand and kills with the other! Undoubtedly the gods find Lovecraft's sagas equally as exciting and intriguing as do his fellow men. They They come in dreams, these little ones. They live in black and twisted roots And rise against a spongy moon And play on timeless, phantom flutes. They spread their thin and stringy arms. They clasp you close to crucify. And then you too shall be as they... The pale green ones who cannot die. ---Ruby Diehr -- 18 --
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