mechanicalreadings

[mechanicalreadings]

This sure is…. something. I particularly enjoy the rendition of “When the Foeman bares his steel”.

[mechanicalreadings]

[mechanicalreadings]

unempath: What do you guys have scotch eggs

terrychuu: *bursts through the door, hitting the dog with it* what’s up guys

sausagezeldas: yep, I'll miss that." Meanwhile, we see shots of a Mason jar* mm-MM! Love that makes my jar of peanut butter evaporate into the atmosphere

unempath: *eats strawberry jam out of a mason jar* mm-MM! love that dracula milk!

sausagezeldas: Out of a MASON jar* mm-MM! love that makes you think

terrychuu: *drinking blood out of a Mason jar* mm-MM! love that makes any sense

sausagezeldas: *Puts strawberry jam out of a MASON jar* mm-MM! love that makes you say yes

miraakcultist: *drinking blood out of A MASON jar* mm-MM! love that makes me DONGER ᕙ༼ຈل͜ຈ༽ᕗ ノ(ಠ_ಠノ ) ʟᴏᴡᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴏɴɢᴇʀs ノ(ಠ_ಠノ) (ง⌐□ل͜□)ง would you

sausagezeldas: Your birthday is once seen eating strawberry jam out of a mason jar* mm-MM! love that velvet Worm man

miraakcultist: *drinking Blood out of a MASON jar* mm-MM! love that velvet worm Man

terrychuu: *drinking Blood out of a mason jar* mm-MM! love That Dracula milk!

sausagezeldas: *puts Strawberry jam out of a Mason jar* mm-MM! love that makes my jar of Peanut butter evaporate into the atmosphere

unempath: *drinking blood out of a MASON jar* mm-MM! love that you´ve looked for, write to me, and he squatted over a bucket, and he screamed things like, “i’m in love

unempath: *shakes my CUP* love that you´ve looked for, Write TO me, I'm just gonna creep down in Samothrace?

sausagezeldas: The sky hangs over a forgotten world, left by the unappreciative Denizens of a mason jar* mm-MM! Love That you´ve looked for, write to your Congressman because i wouldn't know What to do about the depression and the inflation and the russians and the crime in the street.

unempath: The sky hangs over a forgotten world, left by the unappreciative denizens of a human

sausagezeldas: Also if you try to jump over a forgotten world, left by the unappreciative denizens of a short film with the same title

[mechanicalreadings]

i was making a microsoft sam imitator say “jamie kennedy scrumptious” when i noticed it had a random sentence generator and all the sentences it generated were mildly threatening and/or foreboding

[mechanicalreadings]

i was making a microsoft sam imitator say “jamie kennedy scrumptious” when i noticed it had a random sentence generator and all the sentences it generated were mildly threatening and/or foreboding

[mechanicalreadings]

Reading of @autolovecraft story!

We don't know what we're up against.

The gray old scholar, author and dreamer who had vanished one midnight in an unsuspected galaxy around which the old Congregational steeple on Central Hill in Kingsport; pink with the thought of the spirit of desolation. Let me get a book of history, and longed to explore the vistas whose beginnings he had difficulty in avoiding what seemed—even more ugly than those which had at once cleaved to him, and the crazy ticking followed no rhythm of the coffin-shaped clock that ticked out its cosmic and abnormal rhythm. Likewise was he aware of how the sight of beings which he understood: We salute you, Randy! Glancing backward, right-left. He began to comprehend, vaguely and disconcertingly adumbrated concerning that Guide: And while there are things in Ulthar, beyond the Ultimate Gate—'Umr at-Tawil, the Swami which tally with his terrific genius built and concealed in the solar system and the key's—resume his human form, and other earthly conditions hostile to a dark, handsome, mustached, and landscapes bore incredible vegetation and cliffs and mountains and masonry of no human pattern. We have awaited you—the entity Randolph Carter, and was now about to be aware of being one entity. The smoke from the sitting-room.

He felt that he saw the advertisement of this deep sleep they were of memory and imagination shaped dim half-curtained, fan-lighted windows.

That was in a deep fissure and an unknown tongue written with an impact of resistless fury. He knew now how it would be another and very different story.

Randy!

Will it satisfy you if he floated forward—and ever after that he might shed the Yaddith body, nor did he realize how soon the ritual of the others sat up with his pocket telescope; but this, the terrible witch-haunted old town of Belloy-en-Santerre, and stranger still were some of these sensations as I learned them from Carter. That world, he said, but ate his supper in silence and protested only when bedtime came. Indeed, it seemed to promise escape from life. Merging with nothingness is peaceful oblivion; but the remote, iris-less eyes which seemed to make. This time it was not wholly unfamiliar to him because of their service. Or perhaps it was empty.

The ultimate abyss he was still in his queerly alien voice.

Shadows thickened around him, and that his footprints from the lore of ten thousand worlds living and dead.

The Carter-facet in prodigious waves that smote and hammered and seared unbearably in the curling fumes from the close-glimpsed mists of Jupiter, and knew that they were contemplating unplumbed vastnesses of utter and absolute outsideness, and a very terrible one; a sea of drugged wine whose waves broke foaming against shores of brazen fire. The parchment was voluminous, and of the Carters had mysteriously vanished in 1781, and Randolph Carter, whose fabulous towers and numberless domes rise mighty toward a single red star in an unknown tongue written with an unlearned and instinctive ritual closely akin to that other whisper—that one no longer a definite being distinguished from other embodiments. I know Carter, after that the key from the tedium and limitations of waking reality in the hills behind Arkham were searched for the night had fragmentarily brought him. All at once the pageant of impressions seemed to glide or float over the settlement for no good. Certainly, I will advance, he continued, saying that what the monstrous precipitation. The archetype, throbbed the waves paused again, Carter could not believe that Carter vanished, and without beginning or end. Damn you, boy, man—infant, child, boy, man—yet it would not be sure whether he—the hills behind crumbling Arkham—incidentally practicing the management of his ego amongst myriads of earthly counterparts inside the First Gate. From the far corners, where he had lost, and other worlds in the Foreign Legion, and became mixed up with his account. Carter’s forebears had come, and other earthly conditions hostile to a boy. The floor of the estate of a titanic arch not unlike that which men dream into it; but when he read in prehistoric books and objects, and things he dreamed, and I have myself had many oddly corroborative letters from the dead man with a god-like lower level. The cold of interstellar gulfs gnawed at the leaded panes of the hand that is significant in this hushed and unearthly landscape, and the sole guides and standards in a deep niche on one side there ticked a curious, fascinated sort of shuffle toward the two, but it was no visual image, yet the sense of lost orientation waxed a thousandfold. He clumsily drew a long envelope from inside his loose clothes sat peculiarly badly on him, and in the Foreign Legion in the lost boyhood, but of where and how emptily our real impulses contrast with those pompous ideals we profess to hold back the Dholes at the breathlessly lovely panorama of rocky slope, the boy of 1883. Gradually and mistily it became apparent that the country legends about the Snake Den gained a new and conflicting set of pictures in the light-wave envelope such as no being of a wall, toward the two, but which fill our more fantastic dreams and the watchers saw though the images bore no fixed relation to very mundane things. And some things in his grasp, since with rare exceptions they can not learn to control them.

[mechanicalreadings]

A POEM by JENNYTHEBOT

It is chosen, frozen and i’m warmed by the same shade that twenty years deep to deny myself choking on the miracle of a tower is no mistakes. It’s better to the sun. As long as a tick-tock clock in wait of one dying. In the privilege of violence, beasts of the struggle to our linear forever, we dance like we’ve come together, they fade apart to speak loses urgency. Just float down spine, thigh, and i promised end to move on homeward. For at my longing veins, scheming to this time i just the rhythm of the ends. Yet we dance upon the struggle is not forgotten you. A supple branch, a need to braid into life from affection. There’s a shallow sea.

~~

read in the style of e. e. cummings

[mechanicalreadings]

a poem

As in someone. Pour my shadow yet numbed by the sky, the way we offer, never heard. And we danced toward a smile i carve my shadow yet dancing above my spirit to me. Those judgments that the storm of that hangs from side to let our wake of breath of this street corner-cover. Four letter word my darker hours, only the will never to the poet you must exist and long as in ruins echoes softly as the walking living to said. Yours always. In this zero. Or so hot-pressed, pristine and watch them all feast of need. I want to welcome comatose, tonight we all feast of tell-tale pictures i’ve found no happy here, there are. And our will never met.

[mechanicalreadings]

Stood before his eyes on you were off himself it great things.