Darrick Dishaw photo
  cult of cthulhu

Darrick David Dishaw is a dark and weird man.  He lives in downtown Madison, and has lived in or around the capitol city all his life.  Roleplaying game author, artist, and poet—he has self-published his first book of poetry, Alien Demons, Swords and Magic.  These poems are inflicted with darkness, sex, and violence.  Cherished or reviled, either way his words produce a reaction in the reader.  Available from Lulu.com:  www.lulu.com/browse/book_view.php?fCID=198794
Darrick is 31, in the family real estate business, and has ordained himself High Priest of the Cult of Cthulhu.  He chooses to take no royalty nor profit from his creative efforts.  "To start indulging in marketability would probably be the end for my artistic output.  I am a true outsider."  Darrick's writing is influenced by H. P. Lovecraft, Thomas Ligotti, and many others.
Visit Darrick Dishaw's site at:  www.CultofCthulhu.net.

Clocks Are Melting Darkly

Words, they drain me away, slapping my face.
I see by your insufferable stare those words are to illustrate
Some harm. Like chameleon slime changing my Devil’s name,
I am compelled to argue, agree, love, hate, and fuck you.
For all your worth ...

We walked together. The lakeshore subterranean tomb,
Its steps quite steep and wet, holding each other. My embrace
All wrong and suggestive upon your supple, teasing
15 year old body. Only made for a moment’s lust.
Small violations in comparison to what you’ll soon see.

Dangerous life outliving few chattering demon things
Loyal to their own selves. Far too fascinated in dark energy
Ripping this universe apart as it pulls us to something unknown.
The chaos blood-scrawls upon the soft, rough charcoal walls
Spell out the dangers, equation by equation.

Such great lives, amounting to none. Because nobody tries and
Nobody waits for the dead ones to infiltrate these flesh barriers.
They hunger still for a virgin world such as this, already steeped
In madness and despair, ignorance and tedium.

Oh, how they wait as we placate our superiors.
Shall we not annihilate? Are they not inferior?
Hahaha, how droll I feel tonight. Quickly, let us dance the
Puppet dance!

You are cold, allow me to draw my black, velvet cloak around you.
It produces no warmth but the illusion shall carry you
Far enough. Close enough to the threshold before my demons
Rip your tights, bra, and panties to seductive ribbons.
No escape from death in this tomb. Our appetite is legion
No time, my love, no time. The savage, searing red in me
Is ready to erupt behind a shallow sea of purple.
Through emerald and chartreuse illuminated chambers
I stalk your beauty like the night.

(This poem, “Clocks Are Melting Darkly” is not included in Alien Demons, Swords and Magic but it is representative of the poems contained in that book. Check out my website for new artistic and magical endeavors: CultofCthulhu.net).