Ex Libris: Al Mulo –

He’s no Child of Judas –
An only child, pale with
His hair long and black,
Tied up so it pools along his collar . . .
Nor when he takes his walks through the family
Cemetery out back
Does he stop to count the
Oats and carrot seeds.
Upon the wall, the good Lord de Lioncourt and de Pointe du Lac elegantly
Pose, framed in a
Shining gold with embedded
Jade.
The antique hand mirror lies on the foot stool
Tarnished from use.
He sits in the library, von Kleist in hand, and Lamia at his

Feet – the lax calico winding in circles before the
Peat-fueled fire.
Sir Richard Burton
Sits
Besides Hans Heinz
Ewer, John Polidori, Leonard Wolf,
And a fallen over – first edition – of the great
Abraham Stoker on the 17th century secretary.
He’s no Gilles Garnier, though his therian charm and otherkin
Beliefs do cast some shadows on his name.
The display case in the sun holds mallets and teeth
…iron collars and

Ropes, and other necessities
For those who aspire to be a Jonathan Harker.
And though he may partake in the occasional reading of Kipling and Keats or Byron and Burger – or
Indulge in
A nightly viewing of Captain Kronos or Ganja and Hess
He still eats his favorite garlic chicken – and
Lemon - off his polished silver forks.
He’s no Vacher, an Antoine Leger, nor relation of

Tepes, though he speaks his
Romanian and Gaelic as he does his
English and French – like a scholar of languages
Who’s had lifetimes to perfect.
He wields no
Berserker
But does ride at sunset on the gallant
Upior – the aging Palomino who’s horseshoes are crusted with tar and trampled thorns.
He enjoys the nightly stroll around the grounds, but he’s no nightwalker –
Just a modern Lavater with a taste for life’s crimson elixer and a love
Of the Ancient Ones.