Home » Category: Artwork

Mystic Biology

Alien Squid. Have some more mystic squid. This lot are very good for your mental health, sing beautifully and can do a thousand and one interesting things with seaweed, from vegetarian sashimi to high-class jewellery. If you ask them nicely they’ll send you vivid dreams of the R-Evolution. For a modest burnt offering they’ll send hideous nightmares to the likes of Priti Patel -not that she’d know a nightmare from a hole in the ground, being one herself, but still…

Smiles & Tears

Love Sneaks. A Weird Valentine for an Aching World. One of the best things about living by your own rules and making your own traditions is that you can break them and skip them as you see fit. So, this year, almost as a protest (but not quite) I’ve done a rum version of a valentine. It’s dedicated to Anita O’Day, who did a delicious, sensuously lazy version of that rather bland song. And to my mate, the learned professor don Ricardo Hinks, because I remember once, a long time ago, we discussed apostrophes over coffee and hot chocolate. And of course, to all the lost souls out there wot are dragging themselves best they can along the disconsolate trails of life-after-Brexshit. If you can call it life.
Also, this year, no anti-schmaltz feast. We are too busy planning the R-Evolution, which is more needed that ever it was. Make your own (both the fest and the R-Evolution). But have a spiffing 14th of February all the same.
And remember: language matters. Language precedes though. You get raised by toads, you’ll never evolve beyond croaking. You don’t mind how you speak and soon enough you won’t mind how you behave. And so on.
Have un po’ di mu’and a couple of links with fangs:

Family Lives

Chthonians. (Aka Cthonians). The invaluable Cthulhu Mythos Encyclopaedia* has this to say about the Chthonians: 1) that they are a race of highly intelligent, very long-lived subterranean tunnel-diggers, 2) that they look like short-tentacled squids with no eyes, 3) that they are led by a seriously outsized member of their species named Shudde-M’ell, 4) that they are outstanding telepaths and 5) that they are very protective of their privacy and their young.
On the whole the Chthonians are inclined to leave others inhabitants of this our beautiful planet well alone as long as they, said additional dwellers, leave them alone in turn and don’t try and steal their treasured eggs. (Cave egg collectors. You have just been given wise counsel.)
They are practically invulnerable to almost anything you can throw at them bar high grade radiation and immersion in water. Also, a thingummybob called the Tikkoun Elixir, the Ankh, the Vach-Viraj chant -whatever that is when it’s at home- and the Elder Sign can disagree with them to some extent.
They are not technologically inclined, overall, although it is rumoured that some queer artefacts found in certain deepest parts of the ocean floor might have belonged to them.
Once every twenty-three years, the Great Old One Shudde-M’ell comes to the ruined city where the Chthonians once were imprisoned for a family reunion and to catch up with the latest gossip. This is always a grand, merry occasion, especially for the latest batches of offspring, who are, like children all over the cosmos, prone to mischief and partial to making very silly jokes and god-awful puns.
The Cthulhu Mythos Encyclopaedia, Daniel Harms. Elder Sign Press 2008

The Long Goodbye

Endurance Test. You can tell times are beyond bad when a poor Gorgon is too dispirited to rant. By the same token, you can’t keep her down forever. I know that soon-soon the urge to foam at the mouth will return, perhaps tenfold. I can even predict the subject of my next diatribe, Bumba be praised. Meanwhile, have a nice Brexshit Day-Of-Doom and sing with me:
Don’t cry-ee
Pretty soon
That stupid goon
Our brains will fry-ee.

Get Up! Stand Up!

Monster Musings. The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living.
Karl Marx
There never has been a greater need to swim against the current, to dissent from the norm, to resist and build barricades against this crushing, seemingly all-powerful tide of Crapitalist rubbish that’s engulfing the world at this moment in time. We must really, truly and categorically wake up from this muddle of a collective nightmare of dead traditions, outdated values and rancid doctrines. Else we (not the planet; the planet will be all right in any case) are surely fucked and then is good luck to the rats, the bugs and the tardigrades.
‘ere, ‘ave un po’ di mu’, to encourage your resolve.
Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already, given and transmitted from the past. The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living. And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and things, creating something that did not exist before, precisely in such epochs of revolutionary crisis they anxiously conjure up the spirits of the past to their service, borrowing from them names, battle slogans, and costumes in order to present this new scene in world history in time-honoured disguise and borrowed language.
The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte

Goodbyeeeeee 2019

Push Back 2020 Hello 2020. Personally I haven’t the smallest, faintest shred of an anaemic hope that it’ll be better than 2919, let alone a happy one. Still. We must Becket it, mustn’t we?
Have the best possible 2020 you can get, folks. Stay stubborn.

More or Less Happy Returns

Solstice2019. aka Cthulhu Says…The Story so Far. Having perversely failed once more to vote Cthulhu (or, better still, the ineffable Shub-Niggurath), we’ve ended up whisking to power something that makes Azathoth look like a love child of Gandhi and a CERN particle physicist.
And he’s gon’ be there for the next 5 years. If we’re lucky. If we’re not he’ll go on forever, even unto and beyond the demise of his earthly carcass, for he’ll be kept “alive” by a series of outlandish HerbertWestian procedures and some very effective hexes devised by don Dominic.
And soon the Last Darkness will engulf all, and all seas will empty themselves into the cosmic Maelstrom and the Red Death will hold sway and… But I digress.
Have the happiest, grooviest, most impervious Solstice you can manage.
“They could be made to accept the most flagrant violations of reality, because they never fully grasped the enormity of what was demanded of them, and were not sufficiently interested in public events to notice what was happening.” –  George Orwell
And what would a festive season be without un po’ di mu’? You’re welcome.

Dearly Departed, Dear Departures

Worm Wisdom. (Ash Memorial Year 7) In the soothing, imperturbable shadow of Yggdrasil, the Níðhöggr and a couple of mates of his debate the endorsing of a possibly desirable early date for Ragnarok.
This might well be the last public memorial I’ll upload -for a variety of mostly good reasons. But here goes anyways. I know Ash would have liked this doodle.
Ash, me old china, we miss you more than ever but perhaps it was a good thing you went when you did. At least you’ve been spared this latest, the most Hideous Horror Show of all the recent whorish politics of this wretched country. More power to your particles, toots!

Blackest of Fridays

Basic Grammar for ClipArt Monsters. Friday 13th, eh? It’s got to be the un-funniest joke ever since Tony Blair took us to Iraq. I give that ersatz moratorium on fracking 6 months.

Santi Marginali

Farfallin2. Meet the promised peripheral Italian saint: Santa Farfallina di Sestri Levante. She hops and hovers atop the mountains of Liguria preaching permanent dissent, infinite patience, stubborn endurance and selective schadenfreude. “Hear ye, hear ye!” she cries. “Do not tolerate the intolerable! Take comfort in the modest fact that you are not Dominic Cummings. Live your lives as if the R-Evolution was possible. Resist and bite.” And so on. So far she hasn’t converted many people, but the Floaters and the mountain Trotters absolutely love her. She subsists on offerings from the local Shoggoths and the odd contribution from the Shub-Niggurath, who has a secret hidey-hole under the Lanterna in Genoa. The santina herself has a pintsized pied-a-terre in Piazza Campetto, where she throws occasional small parties for a selected crown of mad poets, avant-garde dancers and notorious cat chroniclers. Her feast day is a movable feast, naturally.  NB. This is mostly for don Attilio “El Caffarenito”, who will get all the in-jokes.