Odoriko Music

by Bryan Zubalsky

First Place

Lovecraft Idea #3
The shores of Attica respond in song to the waves of the Aegean.


The shores of Attica respond in song to the waves of the Aegean, singing eternal regress of dynamic calculatory modes, one termed “good”, one termed “evil”, gesticulations in the margins of the Revelation of St. Joaquin of the Fifth Ace. For all men are attenuated to the finality of the desolate sea-bottom, witness part snow part black, glutted on disinterest. Corax! Corax! Sy-Corax! Chww chw chw. The shores of Attica 15 past 2 received signal following: {{WE THE BLEAK JOTUNRIMED ISLANDS OF THE NORTHERN COAST (PERSONIFIED IN EACH AS SUCH A ONE DREAMING OF THE LONELY PHYSIQUE) SEEK ANSWERES OUT OF THE FUNCTION OF PLEAD-TO-HEAVEN VOCATIVES. YONDER BELLY TEMPLE I CALL TO YOU HAPLY WITH “MONSOON IN MY POCKET” SECRETLY CONFIDANT, REPEAT REPEAT NO ANH-ANH-ANH *CZZZZKCORAX!* ANSWERES IN RESPONSE, WE THE LONELY ISLANDS RECEDE, SIGN OFF, CONTACT PLEASE, SOMETHING COLD SPREADS A MEMBRANE OVER THE STARS, LIKE A JELLYFISH HAND WE HEAR THE SCREAMS}} In song to the waves the shore responds, a rebec of fluxion effluxion reflux, sanded strand. Anticipated hideous discords but in actuality the music opens itself to night airs like a palace on the alpine edge of the boreal drop. Making provision of course for pacific vortex style, the unanchored refuse field that, flattened, subsumes the blue, brother worldpool why make the slightest gesture toward self-preservation if it’s black plates of compassion fatigue in return, black plates of disaster fatigue, lack charity, tempest umpire, hebephrenic peoples populat

ing the afternoon dims up October’s saxxony sleeve, last spurts of summer warmth on the face of the antient polo grounds fronting the tennis court gone to seed where atop a mossy tortoiseshell sits the Undying Tourist, element-scored and knottily fleshed. Watches the breakers rolling in. Says “They are skinny rabbits wearing white wigs, reputed to be salted with plummet of fathersorrow,” in a slow geologic voice of some belching forest kiln. Wears a spiral shell as a hat. Wears a single-breasted worsted wool suit, broad notched lapels, medium gorge, rear vent, dark gray with broken ivory pinstripes. Shirt of plaited leaves, no tie. Chukka boots. From skull to scuppers the suit carries a map in pressing crease. In his cardamom days the Tourist was a practiced cledonomancer, now on the companionless beachhead makes his due with the lesser esoterica of adromancy. Piping all day a skein of skywide leylines into his head but can plunder nothing from his dreams, images too danced inexpressible to gather by recollect: pursuit by a man in a domino mask through a city of marble stairways; refrigeration door opening on a cat gasping for air from its prison of cylindrical ice; Greek lexicons and Chinese nudes; ransacked books; mildewed books; Disassemble; steam engines with each car hammered for furnace chamber tortures, individuals stript & held to riveted floors of burning brass by imps that squat hams on their chests & eat the flesh of their noses; railtrack laid in a Slavic landscape, conifers in the speeding shadows taught midnight hues by eyelid spirits whistling crystal wind; endless underground malls, shuttered stores. Cathedrals and cathedrals and cathedrals, drowned. Enough. If a journey catalogue, he cannot serve to memory. Roots grow from his soles. His eyes are nitrate. There is no opinion of murder. Beyond the tennis courts are damp caverns supporting low hills of wellmown grass. In the distance creak shells of picnic pavilions. The Undying Tourist sits with his back to the cavern entrances. He calls them purses of absence. As like as his mouth, just a parting of skin.

IN THE CAVERNS Lives Rururururu The Many Dog. Rururururu The Chain of Black Lapping. Rururururu He-Barks-In-Sundered-Voices. Rururururu The Mouth, The Manifold Throat, The Tongue-Body. The Hunger. His domain is that of forbidden knowledge and those to whom Rururururu reveals his secrets receive this terrible wisdom in exchange for their sanity. If an individual fails his insanity check, roll one onehundred six-sided die and consult Table 24 for specific afflictions.




. . . Dementia Praecox.



This, this is all that remains.


Tell! Rururururu was the one who pursued the Undying Tourist through the towers of the marble city. Tell! The Many Dog was the stunted man with the hydrocephalic head held by the Tourist while he howled his dying sound, an unending scream of static and electronic insect buzzing. Tell! Rururururu revealed to the Tourist the Shrine of the Sexual Kannon, where red robed monks minister to supplicant copulators with bright water from subterranean streams and the many arms of the goddess are draped with cloth of borage and garlands of white flowers. Tell! The Many Dog placed the scraptrain camp in the desert for the Tourist to stumble into mad with thirst, long with deprivation. Abide. The anterooms in the mind dark with mirrors and heavy drawn curtains, the final chambers passed through when dying comes. Grandmother’s spare room at the end of the hallway lined by chalk rubbings of graven knights and ladies on lengths of framed black paper. There is no effort to be made. After so much travel everything becomes applicable in time. Girls born near the ocean, la mer in their very names, girls do not be loose with your nudity. Girls undo your noose of lucidity. Chw chw chw! Second signal received:

{{WE CANNOT IDENTIFY THE THUMB THAT SMEARS HONEY ON OUR FOREHEADS. “WHEN I THINK OF YOU IT IS RAIN PANTING DOWN THROUGH LEAVES THAT DARKLY TREMBLE.” POWER IN WORDS; THERE IS NOTHING WE WISH TO EXPRESS, MERELY CONSTRUCTING SENTENCES IS ENOUGH. WITHIN THE CONFINES OF DREAMING IT IS COMMON TO EXPERIENCE EXPANSION OF SPACES PRESENT IN WAKING REALITY AS IF BUILDINGS LANDSCAPES MEMORIES THEMSELVES REQUIRE SLEEP’S COOL WATERS BEFORE REVEALING THE FULLNESS OF THEIR POTENTIAL QUA SIGNIFICANCE. THE SCHOOL OF YOUR YOUTH DESCENDS FARTHER THAN YOU EVER THOUGHT POSSIBLE AND SHOWS ITS STEEL SKELETON MANTLED IN STERILE CUBES OF GLASS. A FORCE PAID US VISITATION. WE RECEIVED INSTRUCTION AND ARE NOW NO LONGER RECOGNIZED BY OUR OWN BLOOD. NOW WE ARE ADRIFT TOWARD THE HORIZON’S RAZOR, A NEW TRIBE FORMED, A CIRCLE OF MELANCHOLIC INITIATES. WE KNOW THE TRUTH. THERE IS NO SCALE TO BALANCE THE TALENTS OF THE WORLD. INEVITABLE. WE THE LONELY ISLANDS WILL NOT CALL AGAIN, QUESTIONS ARE DEAD, GOODBYE. NO LUCK WISHT. CORAX! GOODBYE.}}

Through the sepulchers of the earth rings an everlasting joy. Soil on the bodies of one two three artistic girls smoking strange fibers and discussing heavy tomes. Or glowing plasmatic on their faces from a single-dimension medium of seemingly self-propagating text, minute by minute appearances calling for love-me-hi-me or spooling out minutiae as buffaloed as sleepwalkers. The Undying Tourist for whom no one intercedes. He frustrates clocks, having in his luggage a store of the infinite wrapped in neat squares of butcher’s paper, tied with twine. Time is his agar for in which to swim. The Tourist is young and a man says son that’s a hell of a mug you got there, what say you to a million dollars to be the next King of Babies? The Tourist is old and sits on his tortoiseshell, watching godwits wading the marge. Rururururu waits in the caverns, lacework of passages all his to sinew through, curled circlewise in his own lengthy body of slavering heads. Is all performance in some way a love letter? Indignant at how this could be found unattractive, to any able to resist such intellect a disquisition regarding maternals and promiscuities and imaginings of pales and pales and palers. The Tourist’s chosen deity takes its totemic form as a diagonal slant of pink light surrounding a rod of bamboo diagonally slanted. Useful hallucinations, that golden age of mass divinity received in haze and sacred places. Now the bamboo is snapped and love cloven as a brain. A murmur of the sand, outward from that tortoise-vacancy Awareness builds a monastery, stilling the tongues of process, of sex-in-the-dendrites, of the pockets between sensation. The Undying Tourist wants never to do anything. This is called the Perfection of Inaction. He is done with failing and he is happy. He never confronted an Other, there is no other, he confronts himself, himselves, doubles and clones and genderless hells of the same until they all as an entity part when he advances to become his own faultless hesychia, putting an end to response, an end to philosophy, an end to oceans. And on material planes beneath the earth artistic girls bare their skin for to dance love letters to hungry Rururu. He smiles at their cresps, the subtle fold of flesh where buttocks meets back of thigh, tam tam tam. Meanwhile the girls want to fashion a discourse on Situationalism and the linguistics of economic warfare when it’s all done. The Tourist is learning to be loam. The Many Dog can traverse the horoscope of the world as quick as regret. The girls are packing their satchels full of paeans to cartoon cats and leaving for the shrine. And nobody anywhere talks about corruption.



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