Hunter's Moon is showing her early face in a cloudy sky. She is the pale October moon which is also this year's Harvest Moon, the nearest moon to the autumnal equinox.
Autumn mists are crawling through the street canyons of Bromford, the friendly town by the bay and seaside, fed by puddles of last night's rain and the fumes of the manholes of the city's sewer system.
Kylie once said now and then they remind her of the smogs of early industrial London, England, more than one century ago when the smoke of the factories prevented the dampness and wetness of the River Thames from vanishing into thin air. Victorian fogs that covered poverty and the crimes of preying perpetrators such as Jack the Ripper, and the evil ones of his kind.
Early autumn mornings under flickering gaslights with only single footsteps on pavements of cobblestones echoing in empty streets and without the sounds of horses or carriages or those first ancient automobiles. Is there an owl sitting in the middle of the road on Whitaker Lane with its endless row of buildings leading away from the bay and the harbour? Within the wink of an eye it is gone, replaced by the lights of a bus or another vehicle like that.
Kylie, I think, where have you been these past months? Where have you been when fable-like animals overran my life and blog with their wildlife metaphors? Where have you been when the walls of my little penthouse on the rooftop above the fifteenth floor of the apartment building on 666 Whitaker Lane in Bromford, the friendly town by the bay and the seaside, became the dwellings of my mischievous behavior.
The moon seems to be grinning as I am overwhelmed by Poetry…
Autumn mists are crawling through the street canyons of Bromford, the friendly town by the bay and seaside, fed by puddles of last night's rain and the fumes of the manholes of the city's sewer system.
Kylie once said now and then they remind her of the smogs of early industrial London, England, more than one century ago when the smoke of the factories prevented the dampness and wetness of the River Thames from vanishing into thin air. Victorian fogs that covered poverty and the crimes of preying perpetrators such as Jack the Ripper, and the evil ones of his kind.
Early autumn mornings under flickering gaslights with only single footsteps on pavements of cobblestones echoing in empty streets and without the sounds of horses or carriages or those first ancient automobiles. Is there an owl sitting in the middle of the road on Whitaker Lane with its endless row of buildings leading away from the bay and the harbour? Within the wink of an eye it is gone, replaced by the lights of a bus or another vehicle like that.
Kylie, I think, where have you been these past months? Where have you been when fable-like animals overran my life and blog with their wildlife metaphors? Where have you been when the walls of my little penthouse on the rooftop above the fifteenth floor of the apartment building on 666 Whitaker Lane in Bromford, the friendly town by the bay and the seaside, became the dwellings of my mischievous behavior.
The moon seems to be grinning as I am overwhelmed by Poetry…
the dwellings of my mischievous behaviour.
the dwellings of my misbehaviour.
these are corners of the human life I haven't had the chance to clean up and tidy yet.
maybe these thoughts are just a champagne hangover, what do you think?
the sparkling drops that reached the black oily mess my soul is.
bound to let the barrel overflow.
how can one programme positivity?
the set of the mind is one pile of shame for the lock-keyed closet.
navigating the sharks of life?
poor misunderstood sharks
eat the rich and save the sharks
heroine
is heroine a female hero?
whereas heroin is something completely different, right?
where did this opioid get its name from?
heroic heroin killed the heroine
there is too much in my head and it will grow within every second.
I cannot express it.
maybe i SHould use an orange press…
Didn't Sherlock Holmes once use heroin?
the dwellings of my misbehaviour.
these are corners of the human life I haven't had the chance to clean up and tidy yet.
maybe these thoughts are just a champagne hangover, what do you think?
the sparkling drops that reached the black oily mess my soul is.
bound to let the barrel overflow.
how can one programme positivity?
the set of the mind is one pile of shame for the lock-keyed closet.
navigating the sharks of life?
poor misunderstood sharks
eat the rich and save the sharks
heroine
is heroine a female hero?
whereas heroin is something completely different, right?
where did this opioid get its name from?
heroic heroin killed the heroine
there is too much in my head and it will grow within every second.
I cannot express it.
maybe i SHould use an orange press…
Didn't Sherlock Holmes once use heroin?
»Hey,« the llama is up early, too, »Is that on owl on the street between the tram tracks?«
»I don't think so, animal. I don't think so,« I say closing the glassdoor to the roof-terrace taking another sip of my big mug of steaming, warm chai latte.
And above us the face of the moon wouldn't stop grinning and winking…
🌕🌕
🌕🌕🌕
🌕🌕
🌕🌕🌕
🌕🌕
Today is Tuesday, the 7th of October, 2025
Hunter's Moon
Sister Moon, will be my guide
In your blue, blue shadows, I would hide
All good people, asleep tonight
I′m all by myself, in your silver light
I would gaze at your face the whole night through
I'd go out of my mind, but for you
I′d go out of my mind, but for you
Lying in a mother's arms
The primal root of a woman's charms
I′m a stranger to the sun
My eyes are too weak
How cold is a heart
When it′s warmth that he seeks?
You watch every night, you don't care what I do
I′d go out of my mind, but for you
I'd go out of my mind, but for you
My mistress′s eyes are nothing like the sun
My hunger for her explains everything I've done
To howl at the moon the whole night through
And they really don′t care if I do
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