Vision of Apocalypse
Skeletons and graveyards are all that remain,
my heart stopped beating because of all the pain.
Why does the sun shine when it feels like pouring rain?
Just to lose with nothing left to gain.
Bitter trees produce bitter fruits
because the darkness rises through the roots
from deep underground in poisonous caverns dwell
all the wretched pitiless hounds of Hell
They are the true conquerer worms
who make that creature Humanity squirm.
And now the gentle smiling statue shall fall,
and all of us on our knees must crawl,
with the Devil’s laugh and sneer,
who’ll stay to shed a single tear?
No more will this Earth be green,
and blue skies shall remain a dream
buried under the light of endless night
and pure water shall fade from human sight,
only the taste of blood ’cause might makes right.
-Vision of Apocalypse
A poem written by Christopher Dracul Van Helsing
Wednesday evening November 23rd 2011.
Reflections On A Tuesday Evening In Late November
One time the teddy bears went out to play
now the teddy bears have gone away
instead fierce pirates shout, “Here be dragons”
and all the settlers have been scalped in covered wagons.
The sea’s waves now roar with rage
and wisdom is no longer sage
the sun is gone
love is dead
Cupid’s arrow now bleeds red
This human heart has turned to stone
and Aphrodite returns to foam.
-A poem written by Christopher Dracul Van Helsing
Tuesday evening, November 22nd 2011.
Werewolf On The Road To Damascus Part 2
Magog Rhys Petley was meeting with Syrian President Bashar Assad in the Presidential Palace in Damascus.
“Mr. President,” Rhys Petley pulled a letter from out of his pocket, “I’m here to give you a highly confidential message from the British government…”
“First, I must tell you there are no human rights violations or mass killings going on in Syria,” Bashar Assad wagged his finger at Magog Rhys Petley.
Outside could be heard the sounds of machine gun fire and the voices of men, women and children screaming in unison, “I’ve been shot… I’ve just been shot…”
Suddenly the Syro-Phoenician vampiress Astarte appeared from behind the curtains wearing only a see-through black silk lingerie nightie and did a quiet dance for Magog Rhys Petley’s viewing pleasure.
Magog Rhys Petley felt a huge erection coming on.
Not to mention the fact that whenever he was sexually aroused, he turned into a werewolf.
Within seconds, Rhys Petley had grown fur and was crawling around on all fours and snarling and growling.
“A werewolf,” President Assad screamed, “the British government has sent a werewolf to kill me.”
Quickly Assad’s Presidential bodyguard formed a circle around him to protect him from said werewolf.
* * *
BBC News Announcer: This just in. The Arab news service al-Jazeera is reporting that the Syrian government is making the bizarre claim that British Intelligence sent a werewolf to kill Syrian President Bashar Assad.
To be continued.
Frozen Streets of A Frozen City
Frozen snow
frozen air
frozen breath
frozen feet with frozen toes
walking these frozen streets
of a frozen northern city
longing for a beach so pretty
out in the warm tropical sun
me and my love having fun
as I stand and watch the icy frost gleam
I realize I can but dream. I can but dream.
-A poem written by Christopher Van Helsing
on a frozen Saturday evening
with temperatures of minus 21 degrees Celsius
Saturday night, November 19th 2011.
Lunar Vampire In Iran and Werewolf On The Road To Damascus
Interpol’s paranormal investigator Peter Whitstable was having a glass of wine with vampire hunter Dracul Van Helsing in a Paris cafe.
“So Dracul, did you hear about Renfield R. Renfield stealing a classified document from CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia?” Whitstable asked.
“I did,” Van Helsing nodded.
“And are you aware of the contents of that document?” Whitstable inquired.
“It relates how the Apollo 11 astronauts found a vampire in suspended animation in a coffin on the moon and were ordered by NASA to bring the coffin and vampire back to Earth,” Van Helsing answered.
“Do you know what ever became of that vampire?” Whitstable wanted to know, “no one seems to know.”
“Well it was aroused from its state of suspended animation and escaped and fled to Iran,” Van Helsing replied.
“Iran?” Whitstable’s ears perked up, “what happened to it there?”.
“It or he if you prefer now serves as an advisor to Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad,” Van Helsing stated.
“To Ahmadinejad?” Whistable’s jaw dropped.
“Yes, Ahmadinejad believes this vampire is the Imam Mahdi,” Van Helsing sipped his wine and gazed through the cafe window at the Eiffel Tower.
“The Twelfth Imam of Shia prophecy?” Whitstable blinked.
“That’s right,” Van Helsing noticed the Aztec vampire princess Qonzilqointec standing in a red dress on the Eiffel Tower.
“And what does this vampire posing as the Imam Mahdi want?” Whitstable downed the rest of his wine in a single gulp.
“Nuclear war against Israel and the U.S.,” Van Helsing answered.
“Good Lord,” Whitstable whispered.
* * *
Welsh werewolf Labour MP Magog Rhys Petley was attending an art show at an exclusive art gallery in London.
Rhys Petley often attended these functions- as an MP he was of course immediately let in- but he did not attend because he was an art connoisseur.
Rather he attended because of the free wine and cheese served at these functions.
Magog Rhys Petley loved wine and cheese.
But he didn’t like paying for them.
As Rhys Petley entered the gallery’s exclusive entrance he passed a lone Occupy London protestor holding up a sign outside the gallery saying “We are the 1%.”
Inside the gallery, Rhys Petley felt an arm on his shoulder.
He turned and was surprised to see that it was Charles Prince of Wales holding a glass of wine and a slice of cheese.
What was Prince Charles doing greeting him?
He Magog Rhys Petley was a staunch republican and rabid anti-monarchist.
“Magog,” the Prince smiled.
“Er… your Highness,” Rhys Petley blurted, “congratulations on your 63rd birthday.”
Prince Charles had just turned 63 this past Monday November 14th.
“Don’t remind me of my age,” the Prince shook his head, “if I was a common man, I could look forward to retirement in another couple of years.”
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown-in-waiting,” Rhys Petley nodded sympathetically.
“I’ve kept abreast of your activities this year, you know,” Charles helped himself to a smoked oyster on a cracker, “your meeting with Silvio Berlusconi on a British trade mission to Italy, your going to Cairo to ask then Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak to immediately step down before any protestors were killed and your going to Libya to ask Col. Muammar Gaddafi to step down and leave Libya to prevent civil war.”
“All those missions were failures,” noted Magog Rhys Petley who failed to grab an oyster on a cracker before the French maid looking waitress carrying the tray walked away.
“But to succeed at failure,” Prince Charles smiled, “surely that’s a success of sorts?”.
“I suppose if you put it that way it is,” Rhys Petley agreed.
“Anyways I was wondering if you’d undertake a mission for me on behalf of the British government,” Charles reached for a strawberry underneath the small statue of Diana of the Ephesians, “a mission where I hope you’ll succeed. I want you to go to Damascus and ask Syrian President Bashar Assad to step down before any more of his countrymen are killed. Tell him to go into exile in Iran.”
“Um….” Magog Rhys Petley didn’t know what to say so he finally said, “Okay.”
He looked at the prince and then noticed the curious juxtaposition of the statue of Diana of the Ephesians against the background of an oil painting of a Paris tunnel.
He noticed Diana’s statue seemed to be urinating champagne on the prince just as Camilla came over to greet the duo.
To be continued.
Magog Rhys Petley, Silvio Berlusconi and Fenrir
Welsh Labour MP Magog Rhys Petley was asleep in his room in London.
The phone rang.
He picked up the receiver.
It was former Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi who had just resigned as Prime Minister of Italy hours earlier.
“Hello old friend,” Berlusconi said, “just wanted you to know that I’ve resigned.”
“Old friend?” Magog Rhys Petley was confused, “but we only met once. And you’re a monopolistic capitalist businessman while I’m a former union leader not to mention an openly Marxist far-Left member of the British Labour Party.”
“Yes but seeing as how we had such a fun time at that bunga-bunga party of mine which you attended earlier this year,” Berlusconi laughed, “I now consider you an old friend despite our radical political differences.”
Magog Rhys Petley’s cheeks turned red when he thought of what he had done at that “bunga-bunga” party of Berlusconi’s.
They talked for a while and then Berlusconi wished Rhys Petley a good night.
As Rhys Petley put the phone down, he thought he noticed a wolf’s shadow appearing on the moonlit corner of his darkened bedroom.
Rhys Petley ran over to the mirror fearing that he was once again turning into a werewolf.
But he wasn’t.
Rhys Petley breathed a sigh of relief.
* * *
Outside on the streets of London, that ancient Norse wolf Fenrir walked the streets and avenues casting a huge gigantic shadow as he walked.
For the drumbeats of Ragnarok were sounding.
To be continued.
The 11-11-11 Massacre At The Nocturnal Club
It was 11:11 PM at the Nocturnal Club- a nightclub for vampires and vampiresses.
The cloak check girl at the desk looked at the gentleman with moustache and glasses.
She didn’t really recognize him.
He must be new to the vampiric lifestyle she figured.
He didn’t really have a reference for entering the club.
But she admired the man’s gold cufflinks.
And today’s date was 11-11-11: a day that only happened once a century.
So why not let him in to the Club’s 11-11-11 party?
The man entered the club and looked around at all the vampires and vampiresses dancing.
Suddenly the man ripped off his moustache and threw the glasses to the floor.
From underneath his jacket he pulled out a semi-automatic Crossbow loaded with Holy Water blessed silver arrows.
“Dracul Van Helsing!” the vampires and vampiresses shouted to their horror.
Van Helsing began firing in all directions.
Vampire hit the floor.
Vampiress hit the floor.
All vanished into dust.
When it was all over, the club was empty save for the figure of the Vampire Hunter.
Van Helsing looked around at the dust and commented, “Looks like this place could use a good sweeping and vacuuming.”
He grabbed his crossbow and walked out into the night.
And the date 11-11-11 would become for vampires and vampiresses what 9/11 was for the American people and what February 14th 1929 was for prohibition era gangsters.
To be continued.
Jack O’ Hare On Her Majesty’s Secret Service
He was a bunny
with no money
but he was cool
and not a fool
so he was hired on Her Majesty’s Secret Service
reporting to a man by the name of Purvis
who loved his secretary’s round curvis
also loved by Theo-Dan
and many a breastfeeding fan
but back to our hero Jack
and not the luxurious rack.
Jack went out in search of Dr. No
mad scientist on the go
when No became Yes
oh what a mess
come to the test
it’s certainly the best
take your eyes off that breast
and focus on Jack
not that rack
Jack’s our hero
no Agent Zero
but Double 0 Eleven
next to Bond’s 007
he likes his carrot juice shaken not stirred
his bow tie attire seldom preferred
save by a nerd.
When Goldfinger raised his finger
Jack did not linger
but to the tune of modern pop singer
punched that lunatic a real zinger
and put him through the ringer.
Pussy Galore was certainly no bore
Jack for one certainly didn’t snore
and whipping out his big stick
he evened the score.
Sean Connery was Jack’s mate
outside the gate
that saved the world’s fate
for Bunny and Man
they did have a plan
whenever the world’s shit
used to hit the fan.
-A poem about Jack O’ Hare
the bunny rabbit known as Double 0 Eleven
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service
written by Christopher Van Helsing
Thursday evening November 10th 2011.
Dracul Van Helsing 