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Submitted: March 23, 2010
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The Octopus of Hateby *ChristopherStoll

Traditional Art / Drawings / Macabre & Horror

A Dream octopus, drifting from consciousness to
consciousness, invisibly alighting on a soft bed of hair to dip
a tentacle through skullbone for a sip of thought, a slurp of feeling; then drifting away, a scrap of sentiment still clinging to its bitter beak.

This creature is very real, a subconscious species of formless intellect that appears in human dreams as a floating orange and alabaster octopus. It consumes submerged desires and gorges itself on a variety of thoughts, the more potent, the more satisfying for this psychic predator.

It is sentient, and though typically uninterested in the affairs of its human victims, it will sometimes torment its prey with unwanted thoughts and feelings to provoke emotional reactions.

How do I know that this creature exists? How could I draw an invisible monster and present its terrifying face to the world?
Because I was visited by the octopus, like so many of us are, and I was told to leave her. It told me everything that was wrong with the relationship.
Eventually I listened, and for that I owe the octopus a debt that could not be fully payed in the meal of emotions it took from me.

The Knarled Granite Octopus of Hate
appeared unnoticed on shipwreck free shores, sinking grey tentacles
into a sandy bed of conclusions yet to be made.

“I never did like that
sundress
you wore,” The octopus said.
“It came off your shoulders
too much
and
Too often
you were like a little girl
Pulling it over your head
in front of my company.”

slippery intentioned
cephalopods, swimming in my hazy head
telling me all sorts of things

“I never let you see me
writing poems
because every one I wrote
was about
Wanting to leave you.”

I listened to the tiny hateful beak, gripped along my skull
rattling the chain of a membranous brain
and enjoying the anger of memories
recalled.

“I woke up every day
feeling
sick
because the side of the bed
I was on’
was yours."

These were the things that the octopus said, terrible things
I never repeated
any
but one.

“We were never going to
Marry,” I told the girl in the sundress.
“I loved the idea
sometimes
And sometimes
I still do.
But it was never
Good enough
for all of that.”

I don’t know
if the octopus said that
or me.

The strangest grey octopus swam into my head,
telling me to feel in the razored tones of what I could conclude
soft
and quiet octopus dreams
appearing unnoticed and passing unmourned.