A walking cadaver feasting yet never full. Hollow sunken cheeks. Fetid breath. Mortuary bones clacking like castanets signal a dirge for a being hanging onto life yet bound for the grave. More specter than man. A rambling absurdity. Vultures patiently await thy final fall. Ye reek of the morgue. Thy entire body festers as a gangrenous wound. He beckons! He beckons! Rub him down with frankincense and myrrh! Ready thy flesh for winding sheet and cooling board. Turn back all covered mirrors! Face thy head to the North Star. Every road ye tread leads to the crypt. Thy Tomb awaits thee and bids thee step in.
Island of the Damned by Bocklin
The smell of death accompanies thy uprising and approach. A stench emanating from thy despoiled core lingers in every room. Onlookers vainly swing their heads in disgust trying to dislodge tastes of putrid flesh invading their tongues. Youth and health have been dispersed to the gale like leaves whipped by the windstorm then fallen to soil. Leaves decomposing returning to the earth from whence they came. No potions, brews or concoctions from Ye Olde Apothecary Shoppe can save thee now. Threescore and ten shall not be thine for the Fates are poised to cut life’s cord.
The Pale Horseman rides for thee. This night thy soul is required. Ferry passage has been booked and Charon awaits you dockside for thy journey across the River Styx. Once shiny obsidian bursting with life now ye become dusty white-grey urn ashes. A tree that once stood tall in the forest has fallen never to rise again. Strong saplings are pine boxes for many Potters Fields.
Once to the bazaar now to the funeral. Maggot courtiers await the beck and call of thy rotted corpse. Hypnos wicked opium dram shall deliver thy harvest ready soul gathered unto Thanatos sickle and scythe. Journeys fueled by alcohol, cigarettes and sugar end much too soon. Yonder cemetery will be thy new home.
For your reading pleasure I present HalloReads in the Poetic form. Enjoy.
The Urban Zompire’s Junkie Dilemma
Pickled heroin methadone heart. Brains oozing oxycodone pus. Blood inferno tastes of road tar and gasoline fired up my internals causing me untold hours of nocturnal agonies. I am thrashing as flames roar through veins and arteries. Oh where is the pure sweet virgin blood that will wash away these LSD hallucinating fantasies that have me flying off twenty-six story buildings down in back alleys filled with Quaaludes, dirty needles, Crank, crack undead hunting, seeking, roaming searching……
The drugs have gotten nastier over the decades while I with a Claude Rains get-up travel as the Invisible Man prowling the underbelly of the city buried in a darkness so deep that nary a ray of solar has pierced it’s shades in over one hundred years. After feasting upon coke rattled users their blood coagulates and congeals before I can swallow. Feeling like something was gagging me and needed to be coughed up and expelled. In times that I was truly desperate and bereft of money and social graces I preyed on the homeless, walked the halls of neglected overworked City hospitals where no one questioned my presence the abandoned and unwanted were rancid, rotten, salty from IVs, antiseptic from disinfectants, but being ravenous with unchecked hunger I ignored their foul smells I drank my filling ending the useless meaningless lives faster than the diseases ravaging their corrupted bodies.
I reign as a leech, a mosquito seeking succulent prey. Sometimes I follow Catholics after Midnight Mass. The popists still use real wine so tender, so gentle that one can still detect hints of the grapes origins. Not like that Protestant grape juice shit that triggers the urge to regurgitate saccharine back onto my victims. Transients and one-stands, for I filled the trick-turners with sperm-less semen, were the worse for vomited tinged sweat oozed from the pores and every bodily orifice.
Crack houses of 1980s and 1990s recall in memory the squalid opium dens of 19th Century Sherlockian London. His Seven percent solution mellowed out by a good cocaine laced Vin Mariani. Exsanguinating the well-born dandies whose addictions to Legal opium, laudanum, cocaine and morphine well fueled by shots of Brandy and smooth Cognac produced a sweet umber warmth quenching my parched throat. There by night I’m the suave smooth sophisticate, the pompous dandy now called Metrosexual I float into the 21st Century luring gullible Trust Fund babies High Class Tarts into my Lair relieving them of not only their life essence but whatever monies and valuables I find within Glass and steel Luxury condos.
Zompire ~ Welcome to My Neighborhood!!
I especially enjoy emptying their medicine cabinets and secret bedroom chambers filled with Celexa, Lexapro, Paxil, Prozac, Zoloft, Xanax, Klonopin, Valium, and Ativan. With some Ambien thrown in for good measure. Makes it so easy to get the Stepford 1% Women to do my bidding. Wealthy but weak. No street smarts like the inner-city denizens. They are the filet mignon of human victims their blood tart, tangy, occasionally sour milk with a nutsy woodsy crisp flavor that I crave nightly. Their minds a blank slate easily led. Liberal on the outside, Tea Party on the inside their bones crack easily as I sucked bone marrow from femurs. Here I am well-nourished so here I will stay. The Fortune 500 are my personal cornucopia.
“Kinetic energy is an expression of the fact that a moving object can do work on anything it hits; it quantifies the amount of work the object could do as a result of its motion. The total mechanical energy of an object is the sum of its kinetic energy and potential energy. The total energy of an isolated system is subject to the conservation of energy principle.
Kinetic energy is the energy of motion. An object that has motion – whether it is vertical or horizontal motion – has kinetic energy. There are many forms of kinetic energy – vibrational (the energy due to vibrational motion), rotational (the energy due to rotational motion), and translational (the energy due to motion from one location to another). To keep matters simple, we will focus upon translational kinetic energy. The amount of translational kinetic energy (from here on, the phrase kinetic energy will refer to translational kinetic energy) that an object has depends upon two variables: the mass (m) of the object and the speed (v) of the object. The following equation is used to represent the kinetic energy (KE) of an object.”
Rather than making my Super-Heroine Kinetictra a blind college professor I’ve decided to give her an Identity closer to home. Kinetictra public identity will be as a Security Guard at the Gotham Museum of Art aka One Million Hands Touching. Kinetictra’s Tag Line will be, “It’s time to shiver a little…!” Her Dread Locs will be weapons used to ensnare villains. Her magic spirals will capture and vanquish evil doers. They are composed of Zentangles swirling and whirling. These amazing locs are purple with deep blue highlights and can at will assume all shapes, forms, sizes, types of silky, satin curly koils.
Have not yet decided whether to place her on Early or Late Watch but I’m leaning towards Late/Night Watch. More morose, crazy, quirky, scary, stuff happens at night especially in the wee hours of the morning — between dusk and dawn Angels and demons battle for the souls of humans…………………………………
Two Men Contemplating the Moon Caspar David Friedrich (German, Greifswald 1774–1840 Dresden)
My name is Kinetictra, my day time hustle is as a Protector of Antiquities aka security officer at the Gotham Galleries located in an upscale neighborhood on the Upper North-West Side the Gold Coast of Gotham. A cultural institution where old money and new money meet, shake hands, make deals, and then stab each other behind the back when the other looks away. An eclectic menagerie of worldwide artworks that often seem to have no rhyme or reason in placement with just a focus on aesthetics.
As for our visitors especially the foreigners may as well be named, “One Million Hands Touching.” That’s one of the reasons why I moved from Day Shift to Night Watch. There’s only some much of saying, “Don’t Touch” and fielding questions about where are the bathrooms and restaurants are before you’re ready to pull your hair out and commit hari-kari. Yup, it was a relief to get off days and into the nocturnal peace, calm and tranquility. For me the sun’s rays are sting like an Albino left out on the beach mid-day 95 degree temps with no protection.
For years I dwelt with the bottom feeders. Those moronic visitors who feigned an interest in art but only really wanted to get out of the weather. They were walking cadavers alongside big boob butt bimbo skanky hoes who never had to work a day in their lazy lives.
Now no more cigarette shit breath tourists way too close for comfort invading my personal space with their foul body odors dispensing lame pandering foolish remarks like knives of ignorance into my flesh.
The museum is populated by a wonderful yet mysterious quiet & peace undisturbed by the frenetic masses. Silences punctuated only by flowing water, the endless hum and shifting of building machinery.
Even normal noises can be unsettling. Especially those associated with people. The building has become a living breathing organism Uttering creaks moans sighs groans from over 140 years of footfalls, voices, radios, songs, cantatas, the chiming of clocks, exclamations of awe & wonder. Whispers from a Victorian century long past to digital diversity.
Oh what secrets lie transfixed within these silent walls yearning for release.
The immortality of brick, mortar & steel record the march of ethnicities & nations who roam free these hallowed halls.
Sometimes the sudden interruption of footfalls becomes ominous, invading the sanctity of the Holy Sanctuary. Even the sound of my own steps is somewhat menacing. What spirits accompany me on perambulations among the saints and sinners?
The feeble burbling of the fountain stream’s half-hearted attempts to empty its essence, struggling to pollinate magnificent coins.
The day is at end, the light has faded. Now the night crew enters to continue the evening melody.
Nighttime stillness is the best time to pick up on all the little signals, cries, sighs, moans and whispers recorded by the walls and replayed for my delight during the hours of darkness. Sometimes during my rounds I place my hands upon the 150 year old walls and I listen in on conversations dating back to Civil War times.
The Universe is composed of vibrations. Every living thing has its own unique pulsations which emit tons of information going back minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, decades, and eons well into past lives. Darkness brings not only moonlight but night terrors, fears that become flesh and then my mission begins………
Foggy Misty morn over Central Park in the ball field
Cloud Mists ~ For Lucy
Mists Cloud your face yet never your smile, laughter, your cheerfulness, your precious spirit. Life moves on but there will always be an empty space where you once stood. You were a sweet and gentle soul. All the world is passing by and I want to shout, Stop! Wait a minute! Don’t you know a melody has ceased playing? A familiar song is now silent? Here I remain stoic yet crying inside wishing I could reach through this veil of tears and take your hand once again.
Misty Day
Remembrance
Though we be in the Autumn of our lives we still beam the Girlish Dreams of Youth. When the cord is cut mid-stream will our dreams be cast into the raging seas…..ashes scattered to the prevailing winds blanketing the Earth like so many strips of confetti after the parade has ended?
Are our dreams lost forever or merely transferred to future generations. When death stills earthly dreams do they take wings and fly towards the Heavens. Do our Ancestors dream of those yet to join them? Are we the living dreaming Lineages cut short who seek a bloodline vessel?
Girlish dreams beckon faded broken bodies. Minds kindled by the flames of youth —- yet the structure could not hold. BOOM!! And ever so slowly and softly one million photographs gently wafted to earth to be gathered by the Memory Gleaners and placed in the gallery of Lost Souls.
Do Heavenly dwellers have earthly memories? Can Memories transpose the veil? And we, if we be close enough or strong enough then death will hold no obstacle. Essence travels freely no longer bound by fleshly concerns.
She put her hand to the Stone and a million millennia of memories coursed through her soul and out from her pores.
She put her hand to every boulder and heard the rocks cry out their praise to Our Creator.
She put her hand to the magnificent Oak Tree and received the voices of streams, rivers, oceans, lakes and streams.
Woman Tree
She put her hand inside Gaia Mother Earth and heard the calls of sacrifices, bog dwellers, cave peoples, the cries of those murdered all crying out for justice.
She extended her hands within the forest absorbed the singings of creatures past and present reverberating within her spirit. Her fingers touched the voices of cave dwellers imbuing their drawings with Life. And in the fullness of time vibrations echoed through the eons.
She put her hand upon the Rock of Ages and they extended their hands inside her inner being enveloping her with knowledge, wisdom and understanding.
What Are The Akashic Records & How to Access the Akashic Records
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 