Here comes the organ grinder
With his little dancing monkey
I remember he used to play outside
The house when I was young
The man who mended chairs
And the one who sharpened knives
And the lady who sold lavender
With laughter in her eyes
Funny how the time goes
And you never even notice
Till they’re gone
— Jon Mark
Mark-Almond
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Werewolves prowl the Web by night, call them what you will. They no longer buy into the corporate sponsored propaganda of politicians; they have no faith in corporation churches or the suits and vestments of those who manage them. They seek another Way, a different path. This is the home of one of them. (MORE)
Picture 3 a.m. under a full moon. The city has been washed clean by rain that ended earlier, leaving in its wake a howling wind that propels ragged cloud remnants across the night sky, turning the moonlight off and on like a Valium afflicted neon sign. You walk the empty streets, hands jammed in the pockets of an old mackintosh, stopping now and then to gaze through darkened windows of vacant shops at their displays — strange mannequins painted as grotesque mimes. Or is it simply the way you perceive them in your insomniac state? (MORE)
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