Thursday, February 20, 2014

Prokofiev Montagues & Capulets 1999 .... NOXIOUS VAMPIRES LOVE THIS THEME . NOBLE VAMPIRES DON'T .. 2/20/14

I do not wipe my name about your world like a dirty rag. My  existence is unknown to you, just as the ant knows little of the boy who sets it afire. And the night-folk who live among you in your Philadelphia are lesser incarnations of what I am. My 'meals' are legion. My capacities unlimited.  'Fiends' comb dark places gathering morsels for my table. Who are these 'fiends'? They are my 'familiars,' mortals bewitched by hot, rich, rivulets of my blood, or rather the blood that washes through my body. Your Jonathon in his 'Biblical' rantings calls me 'noxious.' But I call him and all like him weak. How they cower o're the truth..... pathetic deniers. Does the lion spare the gazelle? 



Look for me in violent places. Death throws are my dancing and screams, or even tiny, little pleading moans, the music. I walk the streets of Kiev, Homs and Aleppo. Traveling is a passion. And if I am not where you are now, how lucky you are..



They drag the near dead to my pit. And it does not take long to dig one. 'Fiends' are not free-agents in my world. They are slaves. And they do as I say or they die. I whisper 'dig.' They dig. Forty 'fiends' with forty shovels make quite a deep, dark whole. Then while they are still in it, I leap down.... tantalizing some with kisses and caresses ... while others go 'into the pot.' Like a terrier let lose among the rats I am. I tear. I crush. I bite. I taste. They scream and plead and cry. And the strong climb up upon the weak, shattering skulls, breaking necks, gouging eyes and dislocating mandibles. At times I let them go, clambering up over the brink, hastily pulling on rags and coverings, as they fall out into the alleys and run away. Where do they go?... Anywhere.



I need no wealth. I have no cache. I 'eat' therefore I am. My halls are draped with entrails and skulls my blood filled cups. Bones, bones, I love the bones. Perhaps they are my 'gold?' There are subterranean caverns filled with vertebrae. Like nature's 'legos' they are. I play with them and count them, though I never reach the end. And the blood dries on my skin. It crusts up in my hair, 'liming' back my locks like some old Celtic warrior. 



Time is such a different thing to me. Once I slept for centuries beneath an Olmec temple, never once stirring to gnaw on 'the leftovers.' Though my essence did soar free to hunt with jaguars and 'dine' with army ants. 



Call me what you will. I'll kill you in the end. It matters not to me.



Disguises are such fun. I peel my lips off, top and bottom, the better to show the teeth, eyelids too, if I feel like it. I like the sound of ripping flesh. It grows back. At least mine does.  Occasionally the nose goes too. Sometimes I start at the nostrils and pull up, or use a straight edge razor.



I've been known to sublimate into houses, quietly creep up to the sleeping chambers and stand there by the bedside watching the 'meat pies' breathe. Such cunning things, you humans are. Like big, toy dolls, just ready for a bad boy, like me to break. Careful, your 'Barbie' heads don't wind up 'neath the couch.



I like the sound your heads make when I pull them off.... Like rubber snapping, if tires had bones. ...Wheeeee!



Maybe one night I'll see you in the pit?



Oh, what am I talking about? Eventually I'll see every one in the pit



'Noxious' indeed..... I am the genuine article...... You don't want to dream about me.



Shhhh, (whispers) I'll touch you while you sleep



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