the poem for autumn vampire - november drains

7/24/2019 The Poem for Autumn Vampire - November Drains

1/32

Thereby, the Autumn hanged.

The season of the Fall, of maple lovers and elusive wonders.

Thereby hangs a Novembers tale, yet to tell.

Not many changed in London, since He ran away. The same old

grumpy City of exploding coughs had drowned people in the

puddles of aled venoms and tuberculosis nightmares. Leaned

against the cane of spine disorders, London was no more of any

contact to the one, who called himself the Rain. Named thathimself, before Her, his beloved Fall. When death, betrothed.

He wore the ring, of barberry thorns and chokeberries. Months

by, he couldnt tell if theres a blood or berry juice fermenting

underneath the fingernail, that one, for the betrothed. You choose

the one; I give up on religion in this tale. For, the vampire, this

tale is about, is beyond the human understanding, flesh or blood;

however, hes the most humane.


2/32

Villard Cord, 15,November

There was a legend, the Legend of Autumn Vampire. Some

Londoners might tell you vague delusions on how they do picture

the details, here or there in different pubs. Dependable on the

amount of liquor, the Legend of Autumn Vampire would jump from

the windy romance to the thunder-full creeping. Which is why Im

personally implying to you, if anything felt tricky in those one or

two, or many wicked recitations, do reach out to read a copy of my

own, hand-copied from the very original that I offered the Autumn

Vampire, or Rain, right after I finished it.

Now, due to the arrangements settled, you know where to find

the cause for misery that made Him run away from dear and dirty,

and depressing London. The new tale of Autumn Vampire, the only

vampire, who craves for you to be emotionally tearing and sincere,

is done to hang, thereby to be revealed.

G.C.Lustmort


3/32


Day October storms

Melting in the flame

Dream November prose

Crushing heart outside to wane...


4/32


I

___________

November. Nobody would call a girl that name, if she were

Russian. A season of masculine nakedness: clothes dragged off the

drowsy trees, the mistresses of cunning chill that comes from the

indolent breath of their master; the month of insecure tenderness

and autumnal farewells, unbalanced in the understanding of,

whether theres still a Fall, or crawls a Winter.

Nobody would call a girl that name, November, if their tongues

were put behind their real selves. If they were yet to obey the

calendar of people, being not any single one of them. Theres a

rogue-ish elusive depravity in the way of Novembers approach to

the spirits of men: starting slowly, the month crouches up from

disappointing frost to dismantling warmth, breezing whistles

through hairs, as if through the woods, with a glint of resentment.Eventually, November would resume in its intactile shape, close to

December, jealous of the neighborhood to over-will. The most

significant in lonesomeness and suicide cadence, November is.

She is.

____


5/32


The Finnish Bay rang tides. A morning blush waved in, as rare

sun approved to be a host to laziness of last Octobers hours. He

battled through the bleakness of Karelian thicks, through breaking

branches tormenting his eyelids. Forsaken, as a stone amidst those

many there, a dot with shredded walls and actions to be not

endeavored. A corpse, presented to the northern lights, resound to

epitaph of isolated sadness, October gazed at the beginning of the

final day of Autumn, as he knew, November comes, theres

nowhere hed abide.

His favored month, the total Fall at the expression of the cold

disasterthus he called himself now, October. He feared the rain.

Nobody would call him that, not just because nobody met him,

hiding in the woods, of course, who ever knew him as the Rain,

who there could tell his dreary and mournful legend? There, where

he tired of escaping love, or pain.

A vampire, he never had a sip of humans blood. Never had

tears, either, since the Fall. His Fall, devoured by his infernal

hunger.

November followed him; she saw a figure climbing up the sand-

hill, desolate as the whole morning bay, not quite appleasing to herpresence. That figure, not a man, or anywhat, appeared to her as

one of those herbarium leaves, produced by a distracted school-kid:

badly dried and uglily preservedattracted her. A girl, yet to

become sixteen right by Novembers morning.


6/32


October gasped: the nakedness of the horizon, vastness of theair, lucidity, yet dimness of his pastall enveloped his mind; the

feeling of his vampire monstrosity entitled him this day to be the

final. Why did he run? Why had he run, at all? A year. He

struggled, or punished himself. A year, or more. His pleurs daffe

his tears of rainhe made them drought, forever.

Now, then November came.


7/32


II

___________

What what are you?

She stared at the figure on the sand; the faint smoke was rising

from its body.

The sun is gentle. But it drains whatever you are

Curiously, she tilted her head to the right, then, in a little while,

to the left, exploring the numbness and motionless of the figure, as

if nothing but a cloak, plain and dark, it was.

He couldnt tell a word. He forced himself to be there, at the

morning bay, but now he couldnt move : his lips pinned dry one to

another, like two pages of an ancient book, holding a secret,

although, glued. Just a moment before, there had to be a funeral.

His last parade, a disappearance in the final sun of the memorial

October. A drying figure, as discovered by that girl, presented

itself to the waterless skies, slowly curing, like a dying fish in

coaled chimney, eventually to become a sooty leaf, which, reached

out by whoevers hand, would in a dash convert to ashes.

He couldnt tell for sure, his thinking have become unclear,

while hiding in Karelian woodsif he crawled there to die. Surely,

he felt ready to dissolve within the deep oceanic scenery, the

marvel of a limitless perspective, a part of which he, useless to


8/32


himself through many months since spilling grieves of London,

craved to become. Be drained at majesty of last Octobers charm.

But then, November.

She pulled his figure, holding to his cloak, across the sand-bay.

Light as a seagulls feather that one figure was ; she could just hold

him up and spin around her head with but one finger holding, if she

wanted. At least, she thought about it, loved to play with any of her

findings. Most, the unfortunates, the dregs, she used to call them

that: my autumnal leaftovers. Still, that figure attracted her prying

curiosity, distracting from the acts of playing prey to learning that

creation. She loved stories; felt, there would be one. Especially, if

sad.

She pulled him to the saltiness and wetness of the bay, the one,producing rains to city of the pale nights and ricocheting madness:

bipolar and autistic, yet, artistic. There, in its swampy chambers of

depressive spooks, the autumn vampire found himself awakened

from the fleeing drowse, floating, soaking in the iodine of Baltic

boredom. At Novembers gaze.


9/32


What are you?

A coward

He coughed slime, hands together on his chest, as if preparing

for a pagan burial.

A person?

A monster.

He grinned a smile of despise upon his face.

A pathetic one.

A silence. Her voice, it sounded almost like she started to regret,

she pulled him out.

A pathetic one why so?

So much loving yourself in this torment. Pathetic.

Who are you?

The sentence. A pause. A hum. A clement. Of your Fall.


10/32


III

___________

My fair Fall

The image: her, all ochre-pale and desiccated, almost impalpable

behind the bed-sheets, matching to the colour of her face; an Irish

Mist to Islay scotches, she became to himhispleurs daffe, the

nectar of forbidden words and ever inking kisses. His Fall, the only

one he hungered, mixed with loved.

She dissolved in Rain. That name he wore, cloaking in it when

sunny weather. He couldnt live if theres no pouring scars and

helmets: the heavier and faster would the rain behe was full with

life and urge to art. An old chapel by the pond of rainbow swans

heard many a belling xylophones, shushing and clicking to each

others echoes, pounded out with mallet of his awed blight or

mended wrath. But, since he, Rain, met the one fair Fall, the

ambience of musical aggression turned into the sculpture of a

melody. The only period, with her, had made the autumn vampire

leave his soggy casket of a grotto and experience the need not just

to strive (however he thought pointless), but the need to him being

alive for someone else.

Then, she dissolved in Londons rain. And he, the vampire oftears and maple wounds, ran far away in craving to escape the

oceans of unleashed emotions he could never taste again.

Since, never killed.


11/32


My Pleurs dAffe a subtle fragrance of clairvoyant stitches,crowning the gallows of her neck; a rusty almond fried on sesame

oil, seasoned to the throw-up of her head; a blinking briar of long-

rotten sailor, through lava of Cavendish poppy crust, burned

through her hand; a sunny flower brought by one-kneed vulture,

skinless, with a clanging epileptic beak, as a confession to her

heart, to wed.

Thats how he felt the taste, he could not more remember.

How did he survive? A year, with no tears shedding for his

autumn hunger. He just ran: by feet, by boat, by train by

crouching through deadly winter by being blown away with

winds of spring by flipping, as shrunk tumbleweed, by sneeringsummer

He awoke in Baltic rain. The city nearby was filled with watery

surprises, making one almost the second London for that vampire

soul. The seasons in a cocktail of the calendar uncertainty should

have become his bless, unless the lostness. Memories declined the

autumn vampire to revive his spirit. In the abandoned dot of second

War, a crippled Lucian of plundered Hill of Dreams, he lay,

without a crunch to rise, face to the heaving skies, bewildered in

his torment of atonement.


12/32


My Pleurs dAffe my fair Fallmy Pleurs dAffe my fair

Fall my fair

He humbly whispered.


13/32


IV

___________

Irish Mist.

A rare treat in our borders. Might I suggest Drambuie instead?

Why? Scottish honeys not that rare?

A British dissonance, indeed.

The bartender of Hand-Legged Whist splashed the amber liquor

over tiny, as requested, hilly rocks. A slight coquettish turn of an

elbow, and the drink went straight into the patrons knucklebones,

dinging them lightly to remind of the order for the treat of clammy

moist.

What wines doyou have?

If I may ask, you dont consider mixing?

Not yet

Any particulars?

The tempranillo.Very oaked and sherry-aged.

Any specific year?

2009, the autumns take.


14/32


I see. Right now that kind of inquiry could not be managed, we

have none of those. However, I would recommend for you to visit

the Whist back, should a special occasion occur, by then I might

encounter 2009-th a Spanish crimson sherry-full rojo, the autumn

bottled.

____

Lucian, get those files done, right now! Were in fifteen

minutes for a pitch.

A weather clerk to one of those popular, yet unpredictable in

ways of trying to predicting weather, services, he was seen as an

unguided nuisance, coping with the false alarms and never lucid

forecast integrations. The new guy, or, as the crew called him, the

rain-gag, literally tried to find any excuse to trade his job hoursfor the soaking streets. He got that job to only know, when it pours

or not. But everything there was constructed with deceit; most

forecasts were a lie, a joke, to which confronting laughter of his

colleagues heve been fleeing back to office every time the rain

wont even spit.That was their gag.

Hey, Lucian, do you know what weather is today?

No, why?

Its gagging rain!Therefore, amplified with scoundrelsha-

hiccups.


15/32


He liked a girl, a student of philosophy, a very fair and elusiveonewhen he could look at her, he felt that she might tell, when

real rain pours by, but as that rain was made of thorns or needles.

Clmence...

Woah, how beautiful! You sound like rain!

I do.

Few things he knew about her: November born, beyond the

beauty standards, stubborn. They dated for a day or two, agreed to

live together, easier that way, both seen as weirdoes, both with rain

obsessions. When he returned from thejob, that last Octobers, she

was standing stiff, like one of those stone elephants, that guide the

deaths of Ming, yet cracked, as her eyebrows were showing off

some hidden context of the scene, that only known to her, her

forecast specials. A figure on the couch, she was gazing at,

resembled of a human, very vague.

Whats that!? Who is that? Wait, is he dead?

Stop pouring out the rains of dry stupidity.

He bit his lip.

That is my costume.


16/32


But

He knew he wasnt that un-bright not to define a human-likecreation lying there.

Do collect your things, be a moist.

A moist? Wait, what?!

She turned her gaze, the chill grappled his throat.

Become a moist. And, dry away from me.


17/32


V

___________

A youngish woman, which would not again be called a woman

further, as the story tellsshe was a girl forever, she insisted

brought him a glass of something sticky. It stuck to his throat; he

could sense how it slowly melted. Unpleasantly sugary, yet of

foggy clouds and smoky to the nose.

What is

A dram of mist, distilled from where you came from.

A honey mist. A heather resurrection to immortal being.

My pleurs daffe

A croissant to moisture of her licking.

A reverence to saltness of her needing.

A dissonance

Enough! Forget about her. I am here.

What what are you?

A disaster.


18/32


She was so indifferent.

Is there

Any

Anything why did you?

Did I?

I believed to die

Oh, yes, I realized. I did the same thing, also

What?

Believed.

Not because he didnt want to, or because he didnt care to, the

autumn vampire, despite the misty drinks, would not get better; all

hed do, just wave his hand, or blink. That is when, after she

stopped playing words and riddles, she said, sounding quite

straightforward.

Fine, just suck me out.

Suspicious, with a wave of fear, he looked at her.

Why would I need


19/32


Again, she interrupted.

You dont need. But I do.

An hour after they sat, face to face, embracing glasses at the

midnight phase. At last, she viewed him more of a man, not that

figure. At least, he viewed her less of a human, not the girl.

So

Should I nod again?

I just

Of course, youre just what? The damned autumn vampire?

Vampire! Vampire!! Vampire!!!

She pushed the stool away and started dancing, singing to a

witchy tune inside her bowels. He just sat and watched. But, in a

moment, she would get her frozen and the gaze unbroken

Do you need my tears? Oh, moist, you do!

The wickedness crawled out from her maws.

Do I need to know, why you were so eagerly attempting to

your drying? No! Its all the same, with men, with vampires,

with whatevers... The fucking autumn vampire you are! Aside

the others, cravers for the blood, you get the tears.


20/32


Her tone, the mocking pitches, she was grinning.

The fucking tears and I just have a condition of not beingable to drop dead. So, now we meet. And, you know what, we are

perfect for each other. Suck me out whenever you like. Im not

falling.

Anger. Desperate, but anger, thus her words exclaimed.

But youre a wo

She punched him.

I am not the one. God shit, I dont even have nipples! Do you

see?!

She tore her dress.

A Venus, chosen to, instead of hands, to cut the breasts, was

penetrating through his brows with her pallid knapweed-gloomy

eyes, beside the words telling for certain, she was the lead dancer.

Now, sit still. Should do the makeup. Youre my costume for

tonight.

A costume?!

For a Samhain party. You know everything about it, the

Samhain, dont you? Yes, rhetorical, just stay put, do not sound.


21/32


And, just in case the moist would bring out your worst, remember:

Im the only you can feed on without dying. Since Im never

dead.

She smiled, comforting.


22/32


VI

___________

In times of Celts, October was the final month of Autumn. By

November, winter got the hold of nature seasons, humanly

impaired. Samhain was (and is, in some traditions) to celebrate, but

rather to prepare the folk for yet another year starting with rigor,

fruitlessness and death. Samhain is all about death, as when

November comes the world gloats down into the darker regions,

and for the most half of the year would be drowsing there.

Alike the autumn vampire. If you ask him about winter, he

would give an incoherent look in return. He was of those, Celtic

descendance, a devoted lover to Octobers feast, as to a great

apogee of the coloured trees, before their avalanches.

November comes. November rapes. Swallows liquors in tones.

Unveils the shallow graves. Unstitches the unhealing wounds.

November drains.

____

A party near the woods, there, on that bay, where she found him.The weather folk around, talking prejudices in a forecasts manner.

Practicing their false predictions on false boozes, false impressions,

false addictions. On Falls fictions.


23/32


Their false alarms and personal securities for ethics and public

behaviour triggered the reds, when she slid in. She wasnt wearing

any costume; she was holding one, by handit smelled of rain and

resonating sadness. He smelled, October, introducing the new

mistress to Novembers young corroded night.

The weather folk, they froze, as if at sight of wintery Medusa.

Not any costume, not a dress, only the dimness on her wrinkled

shoulders and the mould between her fervid legs.

Clmence!

Lucian was joyful, yet confused.

What a natural costume you have! If not for nipples I think

that everyone here got confused. You won the tension!

She gazed irrelevantly, in her pallid knapweed-gloomy eyes the

clouds were growing, of Novembers rain, the slick and slappy

one, due to the snowy structure.

If not for nipples

Do I know you?

Lucian, despite the naked joy, recalled, she told him to get out,

to leave her, above someone else, that one, for sure, he thought.

Does he look like you want him to know you?


24/32


November hissed, leaving her fading lover at the fires of the

Samhain rituals.

He, Lucian, watching her dissolve in retched night, watching her

plum behind, he used to cotton, couldnt hold much longer: tears

rolled by a rollercoaster cheeks to chin, from rare facial hair there

right down to his skin, the patch of heart. He never knew he loved

her that much. Not even loved, adored and awed now, woed.

And to his woe, the figure, she held close, turned back, from

sulkiness of autumnal mortality, assaulting the grim wetness of his

fears.

The autumn vampire did not resist the hunger. The Samhain

ritual night obtained its victim. That Lucian, cloaked by the figure,

raining at his flesh while sucking off the snow of his raging.

____

The first Novembers bay, a lazy morning, a dissolving sun to

become, for a month or longer, a distractive haziness over the

hazel-heads. She gazed at him, with motherly infliction.

Why did you let me

The vampire of Falls then drained the fall of pure human gore.


25/32


VII

___________

He met me on the street. That day, it started snowing. The first

of November, the first powder, the escalated doom.

The denouement, of autumn to her winter.

He was different. Not that Londoner, a raining dandy, spilling

here and there his crystal charm. More, like me. Still, I cannot

resist my hands from poetizing him, October, Rain, the autumn

vampire.

He said

I was for tears of love. I am for tears of madness.

He looked at me, a question, storms beneath the eyelids

How did I become that?

That what?A vampire of tears? You dont need my answer.

But I did love

He smiled, remembering her, his fair Fall.

You did. You do. You love to bring relief. Which helps you to

re-live re-leaf re-leave the autumn of your blindness.


26/32


VIII

___________

He was different

But he never was. A difference that occurred to me that day,

after the Samhain, was me, mistaking him for a romantic creature

from my book. Deadly romantic. Back in those times, most were

like that: amidst the hundreds of lost souls, there were at least

dozens of autumn vampires. Nowadays, now-Novembers, hes theonly one. Believe, thats why she felt him.

For the most of summer, the autumn vampire was lying in the

woods, under the thickness of the pines, hovering paws over his

desire, rather withering for doom. If you, a kind lover of Saint

Petersburgs disease, would meet him by a chance, dont beexpecting any tongue-ish conversations, if it comes to you

admiring the canals or the arcs. Since London, the autumn vampire

hid from cities, especially of those with maladies.

Yet, he was malady himself. The more he hid himself, the more

he was being waited to reveal. The autumn bay witnessed the

vampire, as he turned one luscious rain to dregs.

Saint Petersburg, as shown to October by November, was a lens

of syphilis, of mimicry, of stealth. As drawn by Nephthys.


27/32


IX

___________

There you are, sir! I perceived the treat, the one you asked for.

Did you?

Its the AutumnTake! However, you should have told me that

it was re-named

From Pleurs dAffe

My pleurs daffe a

He sat at the last and the darkest table of the bar, the Whist,before an empty glass, before the label, reading

Pleurs dAffe. 2009, the Autumn Take.

Pure teary tempranillo. Aged through season of the Fall, left out

under the Rain, in walnut barrels. To sight, the wine is maple, a

sherry structure, opening with amber to the tops. To nose, the

mould of late promenade under the showering lanterns, a burned

out sulphur to a running pipe. To mouth, a camellia in heather

mucus, soggy sativa, roasted almond, crushed into the pinewood

marzipan. The aftertaste is crying rains and thunders, sponsored

by the melted foams of faint amours


28/32


Arent you opening it? Sir?

The autumn vampire turned; there was an amber in his sight,struggling through the cross-like flakes of winter.

The last bottle how did you find it?

Well there is a girl. She helps by time to time, when free

from whatever shes doing there, at the forecast company

Forecast?

Predicting weather, aye. Isnt that ridiculous

Still, how?

She had one. I mean, dont give me that, woah, very chilling

look, but she just knew the name, the original name, and she

brought one from home.

She had one at her home?

Supposedly so if not obviously.

The autumn vampire rolled the empty glass in hand, as if a fair

wine of falls was there. The amber winter of his eyes became more

pale.

Can I meet her?

Well, of course! Why not Shes coming in an hour.


29/32


X

___________

Lucian

Clmence

October.

November.

How did you

Why did I

Did you

What? Oh, no

Did I

No, it just happened.

Should I

Yes. But, in a while.


30/32


They left together. October and November, one, holding to the

rarest of wines, another, holding to the rarest of feelings.

What is how would you imagine a vampire hungering for

tears? Despite the girl that couldnt die forever.

Thereby, November hanged. They stood before the bay, acloaked one, and a skirted one, with torn umbrella. She spinned its

handle, and the aluminum straws bounced in merry-go-round

affection. Along with straws, the winds and snows of early born

November clenched to the exciting whirl, winding around the

clearly useless thing, when times of sleet, yet entertaining one to

plea to vast extense of new-wed winter.

Arent you opening it?

No.

Do you remember?

No.

Dont you want to?

Yes


31/32


But you would never.

He was holding to the bottle, as to precious drug, collapsing over

it, as he became the sky of thunder over the drifting boat, long

abandoned in the sea of haze. October, he clinched deadly to the

cranking bottle; he almost broke its neck, before it fell it flew

away, thrown away, then fellinto the cloudy waves of cold

November.

My pleurs daffe my tears distilled in anger

Those tears of hate are easier to break.

So, would you not dry out now?

Not since I was drained.

Spectacular! Since I was the one who drained you, can you

help me in a little camera thing?

Camera thing?

Yes I did all the shots, but I do need the last one. And youseeI need a character, like you. Have you been filmed?

He waved his head, confused.

The bottle drowned towards the horizon.


32/32

XI

___________

Splash swash rain fall

A tiny red light went on.

He was returning to that dot, from time to autumn. Lay there,

open casket to the skies. He laughed yet, every time he laughed,

he loved her feeble comprehensiveness, back then, at Londons

scourges. He loved her autumn takeherpleurs daffethat much

he wouldnt take inside the nectar of hisfair Fall again

As she approached from the camera, as he was laid down

underneath the maple tree, as waves of northern bay were mixing

to the old-school goth burials, he watched how she, November ofhis drains, breaks down, at maple branch, the neck of his beloved,

and, spilling it over the sand, moves close. The broken neck of

glass rose up before his heartfelt nerves

He felt nothing. He stopped being anything, after she broke his

bottle. November drains, October bleeds to fades. His fair Fall, hisRain, endured to writhe together, met the day.

Pleurs dAffeis the whine is the wining of Rain.

the poem for autumn vampire - november drains

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