Tuesday, October 11, 2011


Look up at the sky. The moon shines bright. The air feels cool, this autumn night.  And beings great and beings small advance  to dance Hunters' Ball. October is a magic space, when death steps forth to take it's place. A top the rustling, dry-leaf floor. That blankets they who breathe no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~BEHOLD THE FOREST PRIMEVAL~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reanate took up our 'young' Jonathon ben Macabi and wrapped  him in her etherial essense, as together they sublimated up through the night time ether and raced off toward the ORIGINAL GARDEN. The  greewswards of Siberia. Chill and vast. Virgin to the woodsman's ax. Untroubled by the human race. A pure and ancient magic place.

Sarah, his soon to be lovely once more, consort rests in capable hands. She and the Moonves cousin slumber under the ministrations of the white coated ones. Lailah walked off with Jean-Michel to explore the Mediterranean depths.

A vampire holiday approaches. Halloween? Eventually, but one comes first, observed since the earliest forever. And honored 'round fires both mortal and not. Come march beneath THE HUNTERS' MOON. Come taste a night that ends too soon. A time when more-than-humans feed perhaps with just a touch of greed.

Look down and see. They all come out, tickling the ground with their feet, as they run. Satyrs and fauns and drinkers of blood, impatient for their darktime fun. Throw off the leaves and moss and skins. Step to the glade. THE DANCE BEGINS!

Sing to the harp. Stomp to the drum. As all Creation starts to hum. Cut into the wrist of one to the right. The left one gets their drink 'fore light. Fly and jump and scratch and bleed. upon the ground to wet the seed of life, which in the Spring will rise, and race to mate with cold March Skies.

And our noble Andalucian vampire took part. His reverent, godly soul gave way to older forces in the hay. Ah, how silvery-bright his well-formed self appeared, as but a bigger elf. The grandmama, Renate played the roll of empress to the glade.

Then Forest-Folk, bigfoot, to you, brought in their cauldrons filled with stew. What's in it? You don't need to know. A bit of lady-flesh or doe. While evil people, they dragged forth, to render into vampire's broth. The centaurs with their rhythmic trot, regaled us with a fine gavote. As centaurinas fair and dark sang love songs to the evening lark.

What you call myth, these folk call life. And mankind had a different wife. Back before the books could talk. But now you walk down other roads and stumble 'neath such heavy loads.

Begrudge us not this Autumn Ball. For soon the snow begins to fall. And 'round the fire we all shall sit, enduring all that winter shit.

How happy Florida wraiths must be, to dance beneath palm trees. Do honey bees live forever in such a place? I'd like to know such blessed grace.

Who am I? We've talked before. A Playwright caught me on the page. Yet Robin knows no other cage. Just taste me in the breeze gone by. A savory bit 'fore pigeons die.



Let him have this little revel.......He'll be back...................................


But know that the observance of THE HUNTERS' MOON is a very real thing, as old as human memory


Dip into our world anytime --- http://vampirewonderland.blogspot.com/ ... http://Twitter.com/wilkravitz ...

SCOTOSH BEEDOSH... BEEDOSH BOPOSHT... BOPOSHT SKEEDODHT ----(know what you see... see what's before you....what's before you is true) --------- rare surviving remnant of extreemly early human, or vampire tongue. 

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