H.P. Lovecraft, The Prophet of Providence, knew more than he allowed himself to believe. He worshipped, with his mind, the cold glittering sky. But with his heart, he paid groveling obeisance to the sea.
His claim was to be the pure psychic spokeshuman for transvoid transcendence. Yet, what else could have produced his vision of oceanic slime-frenzy, the glistening bastard fish-things flopping out of the New England surf, but abject dagonic lust?
Yes, he knew, he knew and he loved. He saw, in foetid dreams, Dagon, the national god of the Philistines, “the people of the sea, who were uncircumcised, for which they were despised.” He did the sacerdotal hand-job, stink-finger of juddering joy, and his pineal slime-vein throbbed in his skull like a psychic hemorrhoid at 20 Gs while the parade of scaled sea-spawn, all gills and gasping gizzards, marched out of the waves.
Lovecraft had the science, the starry wisdom. He knew, he saw, but his love dare not speak its own name. He could not allow himself to truly believe and thus he had to wither away with his diet of crumbly cheddar cheese and cold canned beans. He had to die a wretched death of lonely colon cancer.
The tragedy is this: if he had allowed the baleful truth of the Philistine Phrenzy, the oozing eros-gnosis to sweep over his head, hot as chowder, slick as creamed tuna on overcooked egg noodles, if he had but laid aside his sterile astro-ideology and said a big fat “Yes!” to the Soft, Wet, and Wiggly Wonder, then he might have lived forever among the stars he so loved.
For what are Cthulhu and Dagon but great vulvate deities in drag? A quivering rugose cone indeed, leaving behind a odiferous slime trail that drives men to gibbering madness? What is fish but sealed-up female and what is female but bifurcated fish?
If he had bowed down in the ancient Philistine temple-midden, bowed down to the liver-lipped sea-stench monstrosity, then he would have been raised up, up to the realms of celestial glory and love.