af H. P. Lovecraft & Agent C


I am writing the end of life endurable.

I have read these pages.

Why, it is forgetfulness or death,

the open victim at its very beginning

and the ocean forces of time.

When I could guess the sun and stars

nothing was in sight.


Scorching the shores of despair

in heaving broken blue change

for my slumber, I was to discover myself

in black, grounded distance.


Of wonder, of reality,

of other less describable things

from the nasty mud, there was nothing

save a vast stillness and fear.


The sun was black beneath my feet.

A thinking shade moved the ground

and seemed to travel in time.

Beneath me, the noise of ocean

was upon the dead things.

The vanished mind slept

in the shadow of my dreams

above the cold visions,

indeed unbroken of vague horror

greater than the world of eternal night.

and strange skies drank the smoke of altars reared to vanished gods and demons
and strange skies drank the smoke of altars reared to vanished gods and demons

As the sky I had imagined

where no light had filled me with the word,

young, strange, massive and thinking,

revealed the water of the trace,

the writing I had seen

in books unknown to the modern world

appeared to be under the waves as well.


In a moment the gods of the first glimpse

slid into view above the dark waters.

I think I went mad then. I remember

I sang unable to sing

in recollections out of the shadows

in a San Fransisco hospital.


My words knew nothing.

At night I see the thing.

So now I am written

the end. It

shall not

find me



there is no peace at the gate
there is no peace at the gate
(‘Dagon’ følger principperne i Manifesto C)

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