Melody By The Sea: A Poem

May 1, 2019 at 9:29 pm (love, Poetry, Romance) ()

It was a melody by the sea
Played on strings for me
On the rocks she stood
With instrument of wood
And from that wood a symphony
That matched the rhythm of the sea

On the rocks waves crashed and golden sun did set
But neither her violin, bow or dress was wet
For the sea too loved the sound of her golden symphony
And gentle wind ruffled her hair in homage to her melody

-A poem written by Christopher
Wednesday May 1st 2019.

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Harvey Tallbanger and The Artist

April 28, 2019 at 10:54 pm (Art, Arts, Culture, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, Inspiration, International Intrigue, Life, love, News, painting, Romance, Spy Tales, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , )

The night was somewhat cool as if February had crept in to steal a backwards glance in the midst of a late April evening.

And Liam Van Stope carried his work with him as he walked from place to place.

For Liam Van Stope was an artist and the work he carried was a huge white sketchpad along with a box of pastel crayons.

There he would walk from cafe to cafe sketching and colouring the patrons and customers.

For Liam Van Stope wished that the Paris of Toulouse-Lautrec and Vincent Van Gogh would never go away.

Oblivious to the idea that the Paris of Van Gogh and Lautrec was separate from the Paris of 2019 by more than a century.

And soon the Paris of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway would likewise be separated from the contemporary Paris by a century.

And as far as the thinking of Emmanuel Macron and some of the world’s so-called leading architects goes, the Notre Dame of the ages would soon be separated by a new Notre Dame by vast millenia.

Liam Van Stope walked into Quasimodo’s Cafe an establishment named after Victor Hugo’s famous character who had carried a hunted gypsy girl across the threshold of the Notre Dame of the ages and cried “Sanctuary”.

Liam recognized Esmeralda the gypsy girl who like her namesake in Victor Hugo’s novel danced the eternal dance of the gypsies though unlike her namesake danced in this cafe on weekends and not on the streets in front of Notre Dame at night unintentionally arousing the lust of a Notre Dame archdeacon who would endeavour to bring Hell on earth instead of absolution when his lust went unrequited.

Liam ordered a cognac and looked around the cafe on this quiet Sunday evening wondering whom he could sketch.

When he first entered the cafe, he had noticed Esmeralda talking animatedly to the empty seat next to her.

Ah, Liam thought to himself, when he had seen this, that will soon be all of us one day. All of us talking to ghosts. Talking to ghosts of a Paris that will soon be found only in the history books.

Esmeralda noticed Liam sitting in the corner booth with his sketch pad open at a blank page and his sketching pencil in hand waiting to draw when the inspiration hit.

She motioned to the maitre’d and pointed in Liam’s direction.

Within minutes, the maitre’d arrived at Liam’s table with a drink in hand that looked to be partially made from orange juice.

‘Excuse me, sir,” the maitre’d said, “but Miss Esmeralda thinks you might like to drink this for inspiration.”

“What is it?” Liam asked.

“It’s called a Harvey Wallbanger, sir,” the British maitre’d working with stiff upper lip in a Parisienne cafe replied.

The maitre’d bowed and left.

Liam took a sip of the drink.

Then another.

And then another.

It was good, Liam had to admit.

The artist then noticed that sitting next to Esmeralda at the bar was a bunny rabbit.

A very tall bunny rabbit.

Probably about 6 foot 8 in height, Liam estimated.

The bunny rabbit was white in colour with big pink floppety ears and a big pink floppety tail.

He was wearing a pair of denim blue colour overalls as well as a tall black bowler hat that his big pink floppety ears were sticking through.

Liam began sketching and began applying the pastel crayons to his subject.

He had soon completed the picture.

“Excuse me, sir,” Liam walked up to the bunny rabbit, “but what is your name?”.

“Harvey Tallbanger,” the rabbit replied.

“A name that must be recorded for posterity,” Liam said as he wrote down the name.

The artist then bowed to Esmeralda and said, “Thank you for the drink.”

When he returned to his studio apartment, Liam had been doing some reflecting on his subject of Harvey Tallbanger.

There was something quixotic about that bunny rabbit, Liam thought to himself.

He went over to his palette and canvas.

He decided he would paint Harvey Wallbanger as Don Quixote.

Minus the knightly armour.

He would have Harvey wearing his denim blue coloured overalls and his bowler hat (through which his big pink floppety ears would stick through) but he’d be riding Don Quixote’s horse Rocinante and he’d have a lance in his hand and he’d be charging at the windmill atop the Moulin Rouge cabaret in the Montmartre district of Paris.

As he painted, Liam sang the theme song from the musical Man of La Mancha:

“To dream the impossible dream
to fight the unbeatable foe

To run where the brave dare not go

To reach the unreachable star…”

And with that, Liam Van Stope a dreamer painted his quixotic picture of the 6 foot 8 invisible Welsh pooka bunny rabbit Harvey Tallbanger now visible in his blue denim coloured overalls and black bowler hat (through which his big pink floppety ears stuck through) as Don Quixote riding his horse and battling the windmill atop the Moulin Rouge cabaret.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Sunday April 28th
2019.


Esmeralda the gypsy: Inspiring bunny rabbits like Harvey Tallbanger
and artists like Liam Van Stope.

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Vampire Set Addresses Cleopatra’s Needle: A Poem

April 14, 2019 at 10:45 pm (Folklore, Geopolitics and International Relations, Gothic romance, History, International Intrigue, love, Mythology, Poetry, Romance, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )

The billionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set was walking the Victoria Embankment of the River Thames when he came across Cleopatra’s Needle.

The vampire put his hands on the ancient obelisk which was originally erected in the Egyptian city of Heliopolis on the orders of Pharaoh Thutmose III around 1450 BC.

He addressed the obelisk as he touched it:

You are a relic from the land of my birth
When I first emerged from the sands of the earth
And yet you have no memory of me at all
a silent blind sentinal to all I’ve done great and small
I slew my brother Osiris out of jealousy
because I wanted our sister Isis for me
And threw parts of him up and down the Nile
Which Isis went and retrieved mile by mile
She’d not have done the same for me
That’s when I realized I counted for nothing at all.

So my name is mud in the annals of history
How she restored him to life remains a mystery
And my nephew Horus emerged too
Ensuring my dark reign was through

But this was not always the case
Grandfather Ra thought me the fairest of the race
When I slew the serpent Apophis on the barge of the sun
Then heroism and light was the course I did run

But that is forgotten now
Wiped away like the sweat off my brow
My day in the sun is no more
Dark shadowy ground forever my floor
A creature of the night forevermore

And yet once last century
I was briefly happy
When I met Serena a daughter of time
And love rose like meter to rhyme
I should have known
lasting happiness was not mine

She was killed by an agent of terror
Stalin who ruled his land by trial and error
Trial for those ruled, and error it could not be
In that dark mind of cruel majesty

So Serena is gone
Stalin is gone
And I live on and on

From the night I came
To the night I return
And any sands I walk
Are sands the sun does not burn.

-A poem recited by Set to Cleopatra’s Needle

-A poem written by Christopher
Sunday April 14th
2019.


Serena the mortal human fiancee of Set who was slain by Stalinist agents in London in the autumn of 1924

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Atargatis, Dracul and The A. Y. Jackson Painting

March 29, 2019 at 10:18 pm (Art, Arts, Geopolitics and International Relations, Gothic romance, International Intrigue, love, Romance, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , )

The year was 1955.

Winston Churchill had recently stepped down as Prime Minister of Britain.

And an exhibit of paintings of Canadian artist A. Y. Jackson was opening in London.

The Syro-Phoenician goddess Atargatis had gone back in time from the current year of 2019 to 1955 to purchase an A.Y. Jackson painting that would become quite valuable.

Atargatis at a London art exhibit in the spring of 1955.

The name of the painting was Painting Of A Buffalo From The Rearend As Painted From The Rearend of A Train.

The buffalo had been painted by Jackson while he was sitting at the back of a caboose at a train stopped in the Red Deer River Badlands near Drumheller, Alberta, Canada.

A buffalo had stoppped and turned around and showed Jackson his rearend so the artist had painted a picture of the spectacle.

“A most remarkable portrait of the late Fuhrer of Germany,” Sir Winston Churchill remarked as he gazed at the painting through his spectacles.

Atargatis controlled a laugh.

Then she caught sight of Canadian vampire hunter Dracul Van Helsing.

“Are you here to bid on the painting, Van Helsing?” She asked.

“No, just here to take a look,” Van Helsing replied, “my dad often talked about this painting. That very same buffalo later went and took a crap on the shoes of my dad’s school principal. My dad always wanted to say thanks to that buffalo but never got around to it. So I’m here to do it on his behalf.”

“You’re an unusual man, Van Helsing,” Atargatis took a martini off a passing tray.

“And you’re a ravishingly beautiful goddess,” Van Helsing likewise grabbed a martini.

“We really should stop meeting like this,” Atargatis smiled, “it gives a whole new meaning to that expression “blast from the past”. Although I must say, I wouldn’t mind doing it in a DeLorean.”

“Neither would I,” Van Helsing smiled in return, “seeing as how time traveling DeLorean drivers were right in their prognostications about who would become U.S. President in a certain time period- be it Reagan or be it Trump- I’m sure the DeLorean back seat windows could use a little steaming up.”

“Did the DeLorean have a back seat?” Atargatis asked.

“If it didn’t, we could always make one,” the vampire hunter helped himself to a raw oyster.

“I hear a couple of nights ago, you were in Havana, Cuba in 1956,” Atargatis helped herself to a Cuban cigar.

“I was,” Van Helsing offered her a light, “where I heard from a Los Angeles private eye that drinking milk from your lactating breasts makes one immortal.”

“And would you like to be immortal, Mr. Van Helsing?” She approached him.

“England expects every man to do his duty,” Dracul quoted Lord Horatio Nelson and looked down the front of her dress.

The remaining drops of the Syro-Phoenician goddess’ martini wound up in the vampire hunter’s face.

Atargatis walked outside.

After grabbing a towel from the waiter and wiping his face, Van Helsing followed her.

“Well, how about this for a coincidence?” Dracul Van Helsing quoted a line that Dustin Hoffman spoke to Katharine Ross at the back of a bus and pointed towards a car parked in front of the art gallery steps, “A DeLorean.”

Atargatis looked at the car and smiled.

She turned to Van Helsing with a twinkle in her eye and said, “Well, a girl really can’t say no to a DeLorean can she?”.

“They shall look back and say, this was their finest hour,” Churchill quipped as he exited the art gallery.

“And will I get the chance to play with your gearshift, Mr. Van Helsing?” Atargatis asked as the vampire hunter opened the door for her.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” was the vampire hunter’s reply.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Friday March 29th
2019.

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Athena and Dracul In Edinburgh

March 28, 2019 at 9:56 pm (Geopolitics and International Relations, International Intrigue, love, Mythology, News, Romance, Spy Tales, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , )


“And so how are your travels across the annals of time going?” The Greek goddess Athena asked Dracul Van Helsing as he stoked the fires in the Edinburgh hotel room they were in.

“Well, last night I was in Havana Cuba in 1956 and I saw Pat Nixon’s Rockefeller bought mink coat won in a card game in a U.S. Mafia owned casino,” Van Helsing answered.

“My owl tells me that you spent quite the enchanted evening with Isabel Esmeronde the Cuban singer extraordinaire who won that card game,” Athena looked accusingly at Van Helsing.

“Your owl is quite the time traveling spy,” Van Helsing lit a cigarette.

“He is,” Athena acknowledged.

“And now he’s flying around the British House of Commons as the Brexit fracas is going on,” Van Helsing looked at the TV screen which showed an owl caught in the Speaker’s hair.

“He finds human follies and foibles quite amusing,” Athena helped herself to some grapes.

“I see you’re in touch with the Scottish independence movement should Brexit go ahead,” Van Helsing sat down on the sofa.

“They don’t call Edinburgh the Athens of the North for nothing,” Athena smoothed her dress.

“And you’re looking after the Athens of the North?” Van Helsing thought of the Grecian columns of the National Monument on Calton Hill.

“I am,” Athena nodded, “My father’s Kraken is now swimming in the North Sea.”

Van Helsing in his mind pictured Liam Neeson as Zeus saying “Release the Kraken!” and Mel Gibson as William Wallace standing on a cliff above the sea and shouting “I am William Wallace!”.

He wondered who would win that battle.

“I hear you shot and killed your time traveling adversary the Nazi SS Ahnenerbe Occult Bureau vampire Franz Kohler with a silver bullet,” Athena smiled.

“I did,” Van Helsing took a sip of his Scotch, “Unfortunately the immortal Egyptian priest scientist Imhotep brought him back from the dead and so he’s once again Undead.”

“And Imhotep seems to have the backing of the Egyptian god Thoth for whatever reason,” Athena rubbed her lip in thought.

“He appears to,” Van Helsing acknowledged.

“And with the secret diary of Solomon in your possession, you enter into the machinations of gods and goddesses,” Athena looked at the Canadian vampire hunter.

Van Helsing put down his Scotch, “I wasn’t aware you knew of that diary’s existence. I guess Solomon’s secret diary isn’t as secret as I thought.”

“As the Greek goddess of wisdom, I appreciated the wisdom of Solomon,” Athena stood up, “so of course I knew of his diary’s existence.”

Van Helsing stood up.

“The sun is setting,” the vampire hunter looked out the window.

In the distance, the Union Jack could be seen flying along Scotland’s national flag.

“I’d appreciate a kiss before bedtime,” Athena licked her lips.

And lips of Greek goddess and vampire hunter touched.

Followed by embracing of arms.

Miles away in the North Sea, the Kraken swam.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Thursday March 28th
2019.

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Isabel Esmeronde: Cuban Singer Extraordinaire

March 27, 2019 at 10:17 pm (Detective story, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Intrigue, love, News, Romance, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , )


Isabel Esmeronde: Cuban singer extraordinaire

The year was 1956.

And U.S. Vice-President Richard M. Nixon sat in the LA private eye office of Carson Cody Albion.

Carson Cody Albion was an immortal Private Eye.

Quite literally immortal.

He had been turned immortal by the Syro-Phoenician goddess Atargatis back on May 8th 1945 when her breasts started lactating over the news that Nazi Germany had unconditionally surrendered over in Europe.

Albion, who was going through severe bourbon withdrawal at the time, immediately started drinking the milk and became immortal.


Atargatis: Prior to hearing the news of Germany’s surrender on May 8th 1945.

“I’ve been told you’re the height of discretion, Mr. Albion,” Nixon said.

“That I am,” Albion turned off his tape recorder, “Normally I like to record my clients’ conversations but in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

“Those tape recorders are kind of handy things, aren’t they?” Nixon looked at the machine, “I might have to start using them someday.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Vice-President?” Albion asked.

“Well, as you know I saved my political ass four years ago by the fact I owned a dog named Checkers and my wife Pat owned a good Republican cloth coat and not a mink coat,” Nixon said.

“I recall that,” Albion nodded.

“Anyways that damned fool Nelson Rockefeller went and bought my wife Pat a mink coat last Christmas,” Nixon frowned.

“Why did he do that?” Albion looked perplexed.

“I’ve been told that it was vengeance for my leaving his hotel room door open for his wife Mary at the 1952 Republican convention,” Nixon now looked perplexed, “She apparently walked into the bedroom while some British woman named Sherrielock Holmes was showing Nelson how to make tomatoed buns. I thought Mary would be happy about someone showing her husband how to cook but apparently she wasn’t.”

“So Rocky bought Pat a mink coat as vengeance?” Albion ate some jelly beans.

“That’s right,” Nixon said, “And now it’s been stolen. By the Mafia. And they’re offering it for sale to the highest bidder down at a casino in Havana. That bastard Joe Kennedy Sr., the father of Sen. Jack Kennedy, is going to try to buy it in a move designed to embarrass me. He’ll present it to the press as evidence that “Pat doesn’t have cloth to mink around anymore.” The swine.”

“So what would you like me to do?” Albion asked.

“It will be offered both at the cards table and then the roulette table prior to auction,” Nixon scratched his nose, “I want you to try to win it for me ahead of time.”

. . .

Fidel Castro sat in the lobby of the Spanish Crown casino.

He pointed out the decor and the clientele to his friend Ernesto Che Guevara.

Said Castro bitterly, “This is what Batista wants to turn all of Cuba into. A playground for America’s wealthy.”

. . .

“Who is the best poker player in all of Cuba?” Albion asked the British Ambassador to Havana.

“And what do you want with the best poker player in all of Cuba?” Sir Justin Burstpipes asked.

“I need him to win a mink coat for me,” Albion replied.

“You always come up with the most interesting answers to my questions, Albion,” Sir Justin sipped his gin, “We could use you at the Foreign Office in London. Your answers could shake the dust off the cobwebs there. But in answer to your question, the best poker player in Cuba is a her not a him.”

“And who is she?” Albion asked.

“Right over there,” Sir Justin Burstpipes pointed in her direction, “Isabel Esmeronde, Cuban singer extraordinaire.”

. . .

Isabel Esmeronde won Pat Nixon’s mink coat at the poker table.

Carson Cody Albion lived up to the British Ambassador’s last name as soon as he saw her as did the British Ambassador himself.

After Isabel left the cards table, Albion said to her, “Can I buy you a drink?”.

Isabel smiled and shook her head no, “I have an appointment with a time traveling Canadian vampire hunter later tonight.”

And with that statement, she bowed and left.

“Well with her answers and her assets, she’d definitely shake up the Foreign Office in London for the better,” Sir Justin Burstpipes remarked as he gazed at her entrance into the casino lounge.

Later in the lounge that night, Isabel Esmeronde sang, “Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger…”

Dracul Van Helsing time traveler from the future watched her sing.

He loved enchanted evenings.


Isabel Esmeronde: Some enchanted evening

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Wednesday March 27th
2019.

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When Cultures Meet: Reflections On Love, War and Conquest – A Short Poem

March 24, 2019 at 10:21 pm (love, Movies, Poetry, Romance) (, , )

War can conquer a man’s body and surroundings
But it is the dance that conquers a man’s heart

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Robert Mueller, Interpol’s Mulder and The Red Dragon Banner

March 23, 2019 at 10:55 pm (Geopolitics and International Relations, International Intrigue, love, Mystery, Romance, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

Yesterday U.S. Special Counsel Robert Mueller had presented his report on possible Russian state-Trump campaign collusion to the U.S. Attorney-General’s Department.

Now both the Trump White House and Democrats in the U.S. Congress were anxious to get their hands on the report.

As such, both the Norse trickster god Loki and the native American indigenous trickster spirit Coyote had joined forces and were working overtime to ensure that the words and conclusions of the copy of the Mueller report that Donald Trump received were vastly different from the words and conclusions of the copy of the Mueller report that Sen. Chuck Schumer and Rep. Nancy Pelosi received.

As such when all the parties issued their respective tweets and press conferences on the subject, that should really set off fireworks all around.

CNN, The Washington Post and The New York Times would accuse Trump of lying and misrepresenting the report.

And Fox News, Breitbart and The National Enquirer would accuse Schumer and Pelosi of lying and misrepresenting the report.

And both the National Rifle Association and Planned Parenthood would issue statements that no killings whatsoever happen in America.

And Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping and Kim Jong-un would hold an emergency summit in which the 3 leaders would come to the conclusion that the United States of America as a whole was collectively insane and possibly should be collectively euthanized for the sake of planet Earth.

. . .

Peter Whitstable was the man they called the Fox Mulder of Interpol.

In his investigation of all things paranormal and occult, it had come to his attention that the singer Beyonce might possibly be descended from Marie Laveau the famous Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.

And as Whitstable sat in The Blue Lantern Chinese Restaurant in Los Angeles – an historic landmark famous because an LA private eye had once made out with an LA high society debutante in public in the booth right next to the Smiling Buddha there (the story was the Buddha’s smile grew even wider after he had watched the encounter) back in 1941- he noticed Beyonce and her husband Jay-Z enter the restaurant.

This was Whitstable’s chance to ask the singer in person.

“Excuse me, Miss Beyonce,” he approached the beautiful musical superstar, “I was wondering if you could tell me if you’re descended from Marie Laveau the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.”

As Jay-Z scowled, Beyonce raised her right foot and with her spiked stiletto high-heeled shoe kicked the Interpol operative right out the door.

Former California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger who was sitting at the table facing the Smiling Buddha swore that the Smiling Buddha’s smile grew wider yet again at the sight of the singer’s slit skirted and black silk pantyhose kick.

. . .

Canadian vampire hunter Dracul Van Helsing was in Jerusalem.

As he had been wrestling in bed with the Syro-Phoenician goddess Atargatis for control of Maximilien Robespierre’s little black book in a New York City apartment back in 1939, his pet blue eyed white wolf had grabbed the book in its jaws and brought it to this current year of 2019.

The book contained a prophecy given by a clairvoyant prostitute (who had once dressed up as the Goddess of Reason in a worship ceremony held in Notre Dame Cathedral shortly after the French Revolution) that Robespierre had written down in the book.

The prophecy was about the Golan Heights in the year 2019.

The prophecy said that “the blood of the giant progeny of the Nephilim to be found in the ground below the Heights would bring great wealth to those who owned it”.

And of course Donald Trump had just recognized Israeli sovereignty over the Golan Heights.

And the company that had been given exclusive drilling rights to the oil and gas underneath the Golan Heights was a company called Genie Energy.

Genie of course was the English equivalent of djinn in Islamic tradition – supernatural entities created out of “smokeless fire” who are able to eat and drink and also have children like humans but were much faster and stronger than humans.

Some scholars wondered whether the djinn were not the same as the Nephilim -supernatural Watchers of planet Earth – who were mentioned in Genesis Chapter 6 and the 1st Book of Enoch.

Sitting on the Board of Advisors of Genie Energy were such notables as Baron Jacob Rothschild, former Vice-President Dick Cheney, Rupert Murdoch, former Energy Secretary Bill Richardson and Ira Greenstein (a close business associate of Jared Kushner’s family) who was the former President of Genie Energy as well as a former legal advisor to President Donald Trump.

Van Helsing was in Jerusalem to check out the claims.

He had with him in his hotel room the Red Dragon Banner a special dragon standard flag (that sported a scarlet red dragon against a black background) that had belonged to his ancestor King Arthur.

The dragon was able to miraculously breathe fire in battle when called upon.

Van Helsing figured it might be needed in these times.

The Canadian vampire hunter was in a Jerusalem warehouse there to meet with a woman who was a direct descendant of the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon.

When he saw her, Van Helsing’s smile was wider than that of the Smiling Buddha in the Blue Lantern Chinese Restaurant in Los Angeles.

A woman who was the direct descendant of the Queen of Sheba.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday March 23rd
2019.

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Yaldabaoth On Saint Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2019 at 10:55 pm (Folklore, Geopolitics and International Relations, International Intrigue, Life, love, News, Poetry, Romance, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , )

Yaldabaoth the Irish leprechaun was celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day the same way he celebrated every other day of the year.

By drinking too much.

Yaldabaoth lay under a tree.

At his left hand, he had his pint of Guinness.

At his right, his pot of gold.

Two men, a Brussels bureaucat and a London bureaucrat walked down the middle of the field where the tree was located.

They were measuring for a hard border in case of a no-deal Brexit.

The measuring tape passed over the midpoint of Yaldabaoth’s body.

His pint of Guinness was now on one side of the border.

And his pot of gold was on the other.

The two bureaucrats came back singing and vendoring their respective wares.

“Brussels sprouts and Belgian waffles,” the EU bureaucrat cried out, “Brussels sprouts and Belgian waffles.”

“English Breakfast Tea and Cockney Kids Fish and Chips,” the London bureaucrat cried out, “English Breakfast Tea and Cockney Kids Fish and Chips.”

Yaldabaoth picked up both his pint of Guinness and his pot of gold.

No border was going to separate them.

He went to a nearby pub in the Republic of Ireland.

There he watched New York City’s Saint Patrick’s Day Parade live on TV.

The demons Baal and Baphomet were riding a New York State Democratic Party float.

Baal was eating a bucket of fried human baby fingers and a side order of fried human baby toes.

Baphomet was drinking green beer (what sort of Irish-American abomination is Green beer? Yaldabaoth thought to himself) and mooning passersby with his/her very hairy behind.

When the parade was over, Yaldabaoth walked north of the border to the graveyard of Down Cathedral in the town of Downpatrick in the province of Armagh.

There to visit Saint Patrick’s Grave.

No one was at the grave except a beautiful young woman wearing a long black dress.

The woman held a rosary in her hands.

She held up the Crucifix and said, “Oh blessed Saint Patrick, as many across the world mention your name in passing between pints of beer, I’m here to sing and praise the One you sang, praised and talked about throughout your entire life…”

The woman sang with sweet melodious voice,

“You were the Word at the beginning
One with God the Lord Most High
Your hidden glory in creation
Now revealed in You our Christ

What a beautiful Name it is
What a beautiful Name it is
The Name of Jesus Christ my King

What a beautiful Name it is
Nothing compares to this
What a beautiful Name it is
The Name of Jesus

You didn’t want Heaven without us
So Jesus you brought Heaven down
My sin was great, your love was greater
What could separate us now

What a wonderful Name it is
Nothing compares to this
The Name of Jesus Christ my King

How sweet is your name, Lord, how good you are
Love to sing in the Name of the Lord, love to sing for you all
Death could not hold you, the veil tore before you
You silenced the boast of sin and grave
The heavens are roaring the praise of Your glory
For you are raised to life again

You have no rival, you have no equal
Now and forever, our God reigns
Yours is the Kingdom, Yours is the glory
Yours is the Name above all names

What a powerful Name it is
What a powerful Name it is
The Name of Jesus Christ my King

What a powerful Name it is
Nothing can stand against
What a powerful Name it is
The Name of Jesus Christ my King…

. . .

Yaldabaoth put down both his pint of Guinness and his pot of gold when he heard the song.

A shudder went through him.

This was obviously one powerful King that this woman was singing about.

He hoped he never got on the wrong side of this King.

He left the Guinness and the gold in the graveyard.

And walked back to the other side of the border.

He thought back to the New York City Saint Patrick’s Day Parade he had watched on TV earlier.

And thought back to Baal and Baphomet.

Where, he wondered, did they stand in relation to this King the woman sang of?

Were they on His wrong side?

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Sunday March 17th
2019.

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The Siren of The Sea Plays A Sweet Melody: A Poem

March 13, 2019 at 10:16 pm (Art, Arts, Culture, Literature, love, Poetry, Romance, The Supernatural) (, , )


A Sea Spell 1877 by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

A great beauty was she
The Siren of the Sea
who played sweet melody

Her fingers played softly each tender string
And with melodious voice she did sing
Birds of the sea flew to hear her
Sailors landed on rocks just to be near her
So tenderly tenderly she played the cords of the lute
while caught in her long flowing hair was forbidden fruit
A garland of flowers adorned her head like a sacred crown
Luminosity shone like the sun off her golden gown

Oh divine beauty, how can it be?
I’m here with you, you’re here with me
when music plays like golden rays
And with tender eyes you gaze
Then on your lap, I’d gladly lie
as the sea waves dance to the seagull’s cry.

-A poem written by Christopher
Wednesday March 13th 2019.

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