My golden honey-***,
sweet fruit of the bees,
I'd love to lick you
in the spring-time breeze;
drink from your luscious golden jar,
and love your taste,
just as you are.
__
A honey-***:
http://beautyineverything.com/5054031447

Dinner with Dr. Lecter,
has always been a treat,
we usually start at the head,
then work our way down to the feet.

With every serving yummy,
he cooks with perfect ease,
whether it be brains sauteed in parsley,
or fresh liver and fava beans.

The Doctor's quite a master,
at innovative culinary feats,
and nothing beats a side of ****,
served up with home-grown beets!

____

Fava beans and a nice Chianti, anyone?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iVlkZVAw8Gc

(Warning this poem contains visual content
which may be considered too morbid or shocking
for those of refined and gentle tastes.)

Rock a-bye-bye, Bethy,
from the wood-beam rafter stock,
when the neck-noose tightens,
Bethy's body will twitch, sway and will rock,
the chair she kicked out shall tumble and fall,
and rock a-bye-bye Bethy, will be dead and that's all.
_____
Disturbing photographic image:
http://beautyineverything.com/2375915615

he fell asleep
and he woke up in a dream
nothing at all
seemed the way it seemed
he reached out for the bedroom door
falling upside-down upon the floor

he crawled and clawed along the ceiling tiles
cried with laughing inverted saddened smiles
then his breath drew quick
his fingers lost their grip
and falling he fell
awaking dead from the trip
beyond the door

now he dreams no dreams
no more

i remember too many things
i should not,
things best left behind,
memories since best forgot.

i remember the things it seems,
things left in the wake,
of all my failed, unrealistic dreams,
all in all to forsake,
now I stand here alone without any schemes,
i now live in the lies i alone make.

i remember too many things,
and now i lay here in shame,
of neglected love and misfortune's slings.

Coffee, a book, a blanket, me and you,
would be all we need to see us through,
those long, hard weeks at work or school,
just a cup. a read, a cozy cuddle or two,
would be just what we'd enjoy, me and you:
So, let's grab a book a blanket, then pour a few,
snuggle up together, read and be lovey-dove, too!
__
Visual imagery:
http://beautyineverything.com/4951445218

_
Author's Note: For some reason this poem, though cute,
kinda hangs a tad too high in the "cheese aisle" for me
...at any rate, I hope you enjoy, if not, stick it on a Ritz....

i know i saw you weeping in the rain,
you flagged a ***** yellow taxi,
climbed in the back and sped away.

i know i saw you weeping in the rain,
in one sad eye and out the other,
and i never even knew your name.

___

visual imagery:
http://beautyineverything.com/4954403808

...the tears fight for escape
from behind my tired
eyes,
eyes seeing nothing and
nowhere,
eyes
that are blinded by
pain beyond pain
on top of shame,
eyes,
that wish to close
and die

now.

___

(i'm always ill all the time)

Hot Coffee at the Tracks.
clickety-clack,
steam from the cups and pots,
steam from the stacks,
this whistle-stop with a cup of "Joe,"
on the way home with yet many miles to go...

____

See the painting that inspired the poem:

"Homeward Bound" by David Tutwiler
http://www.myhdwallpapers.net/wallpapers/Train-station-painting-original.jpg

When i lay me down to sleep of late,
i hope, i hope, i never wake.

In the sky tonight hangs a perfect Half-Moon,
when I looked up above, I thought about you,
in your paint-stained clothes and all your artwork, too,
memories of our friendship flourished and bloomed.

With your hands so hearty and your talents unbound,
I saw close up how you artistry astounds,
I remembered our fights, disagreements and tears,
but we always remained close friends over the years.

I sure miss our talks about art over wine,
snacking on crackers and cheese every time,
yet the thing I treasure most about you, my friend,
is the respect and love that will never end.
___

See Nolan's toilet here:
http://www.addictedtowalls.com/contemporary-art-paintings/graffiti-tag-art/Duchamp-new-contemporary-art.html

See Nolan in his paint-stained clothes here:
http://www.addictedtowalls.com/contemporary-art-paintings/graffiti-tag-art/Graffiti-MSK-nolan-painting.html

See all the amazing artwork of Nolan Haan here:
http://www.addictedtowalls.com/
__
The "Half-Moon Inn" is the historic building/art gallery I lived in that Nolan had restored with the help of his partner-at-arms, Mitchell.

Read my blog story for all the exciting details and breath-taking photos of The Half Moon Inn and it's lush, tropical gardens!
http://dee-light-full.blogspot.com/

(HORROR & FANTASY FICTION)

On a dark, damp night beside a country campfire,
tales of The Timberman are shared near the mire,
of Sadie's Swamp, where not so long ago,
The Timberman came and the death toll rose.

No one knows from whence The Timberman came,
but that it was on an October night in the rain,
with hate in his heart and a love of fear,
a taste for fresh flesh and a thirst for tears.

He comes brandishing an axe of the sharpest steel,
fells trees in his wake whilst seeking out his meals;
then stalking his way through the brush without stopping,
he seeks out his victims for his fatal chopping.

The Timberman's axe would arise and then fall,
shattering bone, splashing blood, flaying flesh and all,
hacking and striking to the shriek of their screams,
reveling in the flow of their blood-gore in streams.

Then, alas! -before the chase would begin,
there'd be nary a sound nor sight of him,
just the ****** remains of his brutal hunt:
hacked human bodies and scarred tree trunks.

(STRANGE, BUT TRUE)

Dear Boss,
I keep on hearing the police have caught me
but they wont fix me just yet.
I have laughed
when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track.

That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits.

I am down on ******
and I shant quit
ripping them
till I do get buckled.

Grand work the last job was.
I gave the lady
no time to squeal.

How can they catch me now.

I love my work
and want to start again.

You will soon hear of me with
my funny little games.

I saved some of the proper red stuff
in a ginger beer bottle
over the last job
to write with
but it went thick
like glue
and
I cant use it.

Red ink is fit enough I hope
ha. ha.

The next job
I do
I shall clip
the ladys ears
off
and send to the police officers
just for jolly wouldn't you.

Keep this letter back
till I do a bit more work,
then give it out straight.

My knife's so nice and sharp
I want to get to work right away
if I get a chance.

Good Luck.

Yours truly

Jack the Ripper

Dont mind me giving the trade name

PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha


The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. Part the 1st


With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/index.html

(PARODY, SATIRE & TRIBUTE)

From puppyhood's hour I have not peed,
As others sniffed, I have not gleaned,
As others pawed, I could not seem,
To bark along with the canine teams.
From the hydrants red and wet with drizzle,
I have ne'er to leave  my yellow stream,
For my bladder had all fizzled,
Clogged with endless hordes of fleas.
Then- at the vet's, one gloomy dawn,
A very strange device was drawn,
And poked and prodded where I ill,
Then I was forced to take a pill.
Then from  the torrent of this river,
My shaggy fur began to quiver,
Upon my haunches did indeed I rose,
Feeling wetly coldness on my nose,
Then the raging yellow stream,
At last dislodged itself of fleas,
And to my great and sweet relief,
They lay a bone befor my feet.
_
The original poem:
  
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Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
--edgar allan poe

The King of the World is on his way now,
he always shows up when the chips are down.
Everyone just loves The King of the World,
he always arrives with his banners unfurled.

The King can be a loud chap,
or The King can be quite a quiet mime,
he even puts his pants on
one royal leg at a time!

The King might eat breakfast,
or The King just might not,
he is everything you are,
yet is is all that you forgot.

He's a musician of sorts,
with a very big band,
his arrival is in herald,
throughout every land
-with brass trumpets a-blare,
and snare-drums rat-a-tat,
he makes everyone aware,
that he's now where you're at!

The King marches his forces
through the cities and fields,
assure of his courses,
lying flat beneath his heel.

He revels at the sight of deterioration,
fills his belly with the joy of nations in extinction.
The King grounds everything down to things he scrapes off his boots,
he topples the governs and poisons the cultural roots.

The King's fixations are splashed with spatters of blood,
turning kingdoms into crumbles of ashes and mud.
He bulldozes the bodies into toxic pits of ****,
contaminates by obscenity, wringing his hands at the wit.
Lionized by his minions in the empty empires he wrought,
The King's elite ruling class is dictated with rot.

In the aftermath of the bile
of his genocidal, sweet plight,
The King celebrates with great style,
turning the daylight into night.

With bonfires a-blaze on the wicked, windy wasteland,
The King of the World strikes up his big band,
and once marching again will torch and ravish the land,
dropping massive, beautiful bombs for the sake of the thrill,
melting the people and villages and eroding the hills.

The time for The King
always is nigh,
for he is surrounded by
the conjurations of lies.

Some say he is evil,
(but, he's not the Devil, you see)
-He's The King of the World,
he is you, he is *me.

A bubble.

Form without void,
the time before time,
absolute inertia,
total resolution,
perfect harmony,
the bubble forming,
expanding,
like an explosion,
displacing,
creating,
The Birthing
of galaxies and stars,
planets in formation,
the universe
unfolding,
meteors crashing
into the atmosphere primitive,
amino acids
forming,
evolving inorganic
to organic,
microbes becoming
multi-cellular
--the race is on,
to and from
fishes,
amphibians,
reptiles,
birds,
animals,
primates
                  man,
consciousness and self-consciousness,
born and dying,
nothing meaning everything
time
and time again.

Awareness began,
both
with a bang
and a newborn baby's
cry.

"io sol uno."
-Dante, Purgatorio

There I was,
the comic-tragic star of my own motion-picture,
bold beneath the springtime Italian sun hung high
--a heavenly fixture,
illuminating the gold-leaf enframed frescoes in
kaleidoscopes of colours,
baking dry the pigeon droppings upon the flagstones
they smothered,
where I, in all my self-serving recreation,
posed proudly in a costume of my own creation,
an operatic villain clad in a billowy blouse of black,
the Campanile Tower like a sentinel behind my back,
as movie cameras panned and zoomed,
paparazzi photographers capturing me
and freezing me,
in all my wicked, medieval glory,
floating and gloating in the dank aroma of the Venetian seas,
"I'm the shining star!
--Look at me, look at me!"*
-the super-special star I always knew I'd be,
a painted parody,
a harlequin of displaced passions
for all to laugh at and see,
before slipping silently
into the ornate basilica,
dim and dark as night,
thanking Mother Mary (for nothing) as I sparked
a votive candle's light,
not really sure or caring
where my life would lead,
just as long as the Azure Queen
shed Her Grace on me,
     me,
             me,

...until I fell
and fell
to the mockery of a home
I made in Hell,
hard and forever and fast,
the only fool left alone in my solo cast,
adrift with no direction,
****** and lost,
me and my frivolous theatre,
squandered an an extravagant cost.

___
"io sol uno" means, "I, myself, alone."

This poem is a true-life story.

__
See the Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy:
http://www.carfree.com/design/pix/sqlg110venice_piazza-san-marco.jpg

Crisp, the fallen leaves now pile,
the times are changing, Autumn-style,
breezes rake the tippy-tops of trees,
bare branches rattle like skeleton keys.
Subtle September has come once again,
tipping its hat to the Summer's end,
makes clear and crisp the evening air,
the harvest season now sidles near,
grass and weeds will wither dry,
scythes and sickles swing low and high,
gourds of pumpkins soon will burst in patches,
fat apples drop down cider-press hatches,
so soon those sugary coats of frost shall rise,
and sharp, chilly winds will sting teary eyes,
fruit pies will bake, brown nuts will roast,
glasses of wine shall arise in toasts,
to the approach of yet another Fall,
before the stark-white of Winter blankets all.

My new policy
on critics and trolls
is that from here on in,
they shall be kicked in the *****.

Hard.

With steel-tipped boots.

Repeatedly, if need be...

No need to say a word,
it's morning in the country,
leave the chirping for the birds.

Lay your precious head,
against my caring arm,
be silent now instead,
let me keep you safe from harm.

Each day I get to hear you,
speaking merrily to me,
I treasure all you say and do,
that lends a tender mystery.

So, take your words and tuck them,
deep inside your caring heart,
your eyes say everything they can,
and that's a wonderful way to start.

...sitting here
across from me again
(in my mind's wishful eye),
sipping coffee together,
light talk, some danish,
and an omelette, too
(i made it the way you like it,
just for you),
happy to be here
as the flaming
sunstreak rise lights up
the tender tips of the flowers
outside the window,
i fingertip-kiss your lips,
as the morning bird
breaks into song,
waking up the world,
whilst you and i
carry on
and your eyes
reflect the new day's skies,
it's nice, it's nice
to see you...

I spy,
the morning mist, outside
the window that is not mine,
rising from the river,
sunshine tries to sneak through a sliver,
I, with thoughts only
here and now
for thee,
you
my new and gentle mystery,
who came to me on a silver stream,
made subject for my pen,
my dreams,
and this misty morning,
where I wish to be,
across from you
smiling back at me.

today you took me by surprise,
bright smile, dancing eyes,
loosened the noose on yet another lonely day,
wherein the depths of these shadows I do lay,
again, you came a-light,
golden skin, heart a-flight,
taking the time to share some of your life with me,
the very essence of your softly sweet vitality,
beauty, you breathe the skies,
today you took me by surprise

Is this not what it's all about?
Waiting in the wings,
stretching, turning, churning,
anxious and adrenal,
living for the dream,
wishing for the dream,
being
the dream,
dancing on beams,
beneath the streams
of lights and fans,
arrayed like a bird
in tulle, crinoline, silk, satin and linen
white plumage,
acting only on command,
the music soft and flowing
their frail, slender figures
take to air,
arms and legs,
torsos tender,
slender necks,
wisps of downy hair,
melding colours,
sights and sounds,
the stage a pedestal of fate,
their beauty
captured
in gilded cages
for all to watch and see,
recaptured yet again,
by the artist on the easel'd window
of his canvas,
a maestro of sorts,
tapping his baton-brush,
coating the blankness with sweet
inspiration,
like angels heavenly
brought to earth,
serenaded by strings,
life from the blankness begins,
covers the void,
bejewels the mind's eye
and beckons the ballet
rehearsal to begin,
yet shall in oil paint now
and for all time
never cease to be...

"Art is not what you see, but what you make others see."
Edgar Degas

____
Inspired by the painting by Impressionist artist Edgar Degas,
The Rehearsal.
--to view the painting:
http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/degas/ballet/degas.rehearsal.jpg

the hardest part about
writing a poem about you
is that the words tend to
get into the way
of what i really want to
say to
you

"Cash, Grass or ***-No One Rides Free!"*
reads the bumper-sticker slapped on the ratty Harley.
Its black leather seat is cracked, tattered and torn,
the headlight is busted and there's no friggin' horn;
with mismatched saddlebags strapped to each side,
the panhead leaks like a sieve, but it's still quite a ride.

The gas-tank is dented, scratched and coated with muck,
the chrome no longer shines, but who gives a flyin' ****?
Its tires are bald, the spokes are all rusted to ****,
and the frame is off-kilter from a cage-driver'*****.

The biker just puffed the last hit from his pipe,
slammed down the rest of the J.D. from the bash last night;
then he hops on his hog, kicks the monster to start,
the muffler-pipes blast flames and roar like a ****.

Together they roll down the road like old pals,'
with nowhere to go, just obnoxious and loud:
the tombstone tail-light flashes bright red on this mess,
'though Cashless, Grassless and Assless, they couldn't care less!

Indian summer has now arrived,
riding high on its blue-saddled sky,
of mixed coloured clouds of bold tie-dye,
bright, ripe days and crispy-clear nights,
reaching the ****** of the season's delight.

September soon will enter the room,
leaves will tremble at their impending doom,
lovers shall stroll down lanes two-by-two,
sharing softly whispers of "I love you."

I wear a shamrock on my arm,
high up near my freckled shoulder,
it's been there since 1984,
from those days when I was bolder.

It's not so very fancy, my dear,
but it means so much to me,
for it takes me back to my Auld Eire,
that land I love of emerald green.
__

Although the actual authenticity of this poem's authorship is questionable, Jack The Ripper was credited with sending various taunts in verse to the police during his killing spree. The following poem is especially creative and chilling...very akin to the style and sound of The Ripper's literary exchange with the authorities.
______

(Transcription)

Eight little ******, with no hope of heaven,
Gladstone may save one, then there'll be seven.
Seven little ****** beggin for a shilling,
One stays in Henage Court, then there's a killing.
Six little ******, glad to be alive,
One sidles up to Jack, then there are five.
Four and ***** rhyme aright,
So do three and me,
I'll set the town alight
Ere there are two.
Two little ******, shivering with fright,
Seek a cosy doorway in the middle of the night.
Jack's knife flashes, then there's but one,
And the last one's the ripest for Jack's idea of fun.

__

The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. EPILOGUE. "for Jack's idea of fun."

__


With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/ripperletters/

Give me another needle,
make sure it's good and sharp,
stick it deep into my arm,
in this very chilly room so dark.
Take the tape and puff of cotton,
cover up the ****** hole,
leave me then feeling forgotten,
beneath these blankets shivering cold.

Like lava shooting from the spout,
rolling down the mountainside,
engulfing me in raging tongues of flame,
nothing spared, no, nothing saved,
taking me away,
     taking me away-
just a little bit each and every day,
with molten high-tech tests.
and murky I.V. drips,
no more tears of real pain left,
just flames flames flames
along with medicated ether trips.

Big ****, The Head *******,
was the head of all the ******* in the ******* Shed.
What made Big **** so skilled and keen
at dickheadedness was to be seen.
Big **** had a certain ******* flair,
for tugging at everyone's short and curly hair.
He never had an important specialty,
except for being a type-A personality.
His skills were near to nothing great.
He kinda looked like a backward ape,
with a necktie 20 years gone out of style,
and his middle-management bullshitty wiles;
"I'm better than any ******* here!"
He'd proclaim everyday with a prickish sneer.
So they put him on his own cocky shelf,
where he could reign all by himself,
and every *******, ***** or *******-wanna-be,
would come to the ******* Shed just to see,
what they could achieve if they'd observe instead,
the ways and means of Big ****, The Head *******.
___
Dedicated to every single uptight, middle-management, pain in the ****
you have ever had to work with or for.

Some coffee is bold,
some have no *****,
some coffee can cause you to bounce off the walls.
But, of all the best coffee there can be but one,
is the coffee you have when you haven't got one!

Exhale,
Inhale,
Exhale (let it all, all the lonliness go),
Inhale (and allow the lovingness to flow)
     breathe the romance
     in and out
let your entire being rejoice and shout,
"I'm in love!
Look and see!
I'm in love
and Love is in me!"

Inhale,
Exhale,
     breathe the romance.

Hold your breath and close your eyes,
wish and dream with me, then sigh,
take my hands to your smiling face,
feel my loving fingers trace,
the very essence of your being,
those softly kisses worth repeating,
that from now on and ever after this,
we shall live our lives in loving bliss.

Hum-D, Some-D,
sat alone on a wall,
Hum-D, Some-D,
had a very
hard fall,
and all the King's forces,
and all the Queen's friends
just couldn't paste, tape, glue, *****,
nail, seal, spackle, buckle,
bandage, bandaid, bubble-gum
or even sew,
D back together again
at all.

When the first sweet scent of summertime,
sifted through the sea-salt scented air,
so many things and everything
were bright, light and happy-go-fair,
the Summer Life with you was finally here.

As soon as our bare feet hit the wood bridge,
running from the road up over the dunes,
great grey seagulls squawked, dove and swoon,
we held hands together, one and one
made two,
dash-dancing across the shiny sand with you,
dressed and undressed in our Summer Life moods.

Colours like pinwheels spun like yarn,
flashed and clashed bright orange to blue,
you danced and giggled like a loon,
pulled me up and so close, so close
to you,
that I had to dance, I had to dance like a loon,
I just had to laugh and dance and laugh along with you.

How we played, we frolicked beneath the beachy sun,
belly-surfed upon the waves just for funny fun,
flicked flecks of sand from our sticky picnic lunch,
shared swigs from a big blue thermos jug
of fruity-fruit yummy punch,
sharing and caring beneath the Summer Life's sun.

By evening-tide the air grew cool,
you called me 'lover,' I called you 'fool'
-with a big ol' blanket draped over our shoulders,
we kissed and cuddled, growing much bolder,
falling flat back
upon the mighty mattress of sand,
feeling the mists of the waves licking our hands,
as the Man-In-The-Moon arose and shone,
to dance and laugh with us on the Summer Life's throne.

without you is a lonely shore,
a stretch of sand, a closing door,
where wisps the winds from off the waves,
such mockery of my heart they make.

no matter what the time of day,
i think, i dream of you this way:
hand in hand, at last as one,
sharing laughter, love and fun.

"29 October 1888 -- this letter was sent to Dr. Openshaw, who performed the medical examination on the portion of kidney received by George Lusk in conjunction with the From Hell letter."
_____

Old boss
you was rite
it was the left kidny
i was goin to hoperate agin
close to you ospitle
just as i was going to
dror mi nife along of er bloomin throte
them cusses of coppers spoilt the game
but i guess i wil be on the jobn soon
and will send you another
bit of innerds

Jack the Ripper

O have you seen the devle with his mikerscope and scalpul a-lookin at a kidney with a slide cocked up.
_____
The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. Part the 5th
__
With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/

You though your-self
very clever I reckon
when you
informed the police.

But you made a mistake
if you though I dident see you.

Now I known
you know me
and I see your little game,
and I mean to finish you
and send
your ears to your wife
if you show this to the police
or help them
if you do

I will finish you.

It no use your trying to get out of my way.

Because I have you
when you dont expect it
and I keep my word
as you soon see and
rip you up.

Yours truly

Jack the Ripper.

PS You see I know your address
______
The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. Part the 4th
_
With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/ripperletters/

"On October 16th George Lusk, the president of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, received a three-inch-square cardboard box in his mail. Inside was half a human kidney preserved in wine, along with the following letter. Medical reports carried out by Dr. Openshaw found the kidney to be very similar to the one removed from Catherine Eddowes, though his findings were inconclusive either way. The letter read as follows:"

From hell.
Mr Lusk,
Sor
I send you half the Kidne
I took from one woman
and prasarved it for you
tother piece
I fried and ate
it was very nise.

I may send you
the ****** knif
that took it out
if you only wate a whil longer

signed
Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk
_______
View the actual document here: http://www.casebook.org/images/lusksmall.jpg
The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. Part the 3rd
________
With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/index.html

I was not codding
dear old Boss
when I gave you the tip,
you'll hear about
Saucy Jacky's
work tomorrow
double event this time
number one squealed a bit
couldn't finish straight off.

ha not the time to get ears for police.

thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.

Jack the Ripper
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The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. Part the 2nd
______
With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/index.html

Dear Boss,
I keep on hearing the police have caught me
but they wont fix me just yet.
I have laughed
when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track.

That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits.

I am down on ******
and I shant quit
ripping them
till I do get buckled.

Grand work the last job was.
I gave the lady
no time to squeal.

How can they catch me now.

I love my work
and want to start again.

You will soon hear of me with
my funny little games.

I saved some of the proper red stuff
in a ginger beer bottle
over the last job
to write with
but it went thick
like glue
and
I cant use it.

Red ink is fit enough I hope
ha. ha.

The next job
I do
I shall clip
the ladys ears
off
and send to the police officers
just for jolly wouldn't you.

Keep this letter back
till I do a bit more work,
then give it out straight.

My knife's so nice and sharp
I want to get to work right away
if I get a chance.

Good Luck.

Yours truly

Jack the Ripper

Dont mind me giving the trade name

PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha
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The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. Part the 1st
_____

With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/index.html

i can no longer understand how now,
this sleeplessness at night,
when the world is waking in other places
so far away from me,
to the ethereal powders of the breeze,
that paints the morning with its poetry,
as the phantom of the love i love,
causes me to awaken with a cry.

It's going to rain, rain, it's going to rain,
those sleek-silver drops will take me back again,
to those cobbled, winding streets,
the raucous, song-filled pubs,
and the green, the green, the red-brick,
granite and oh! the green,
the steaming Earl Grey tea,
of which i love with a yearning need,
waiting, waiting for me,
on that precious island on the sea.

I

i am so much smaller than you
and i can ever
                            believe...
and you are so much smaller
than you and
i know.

i sit within the winds,
those summer breezes,
some gusty gales, perhaps,
feeling
'the tug
               and toss
of its fabulous force
     rippling
     churning
combing the thinning grey hair on my tired head,
my clothing,
                          so indistinct,
flapping,
                  furling,
floating, --filled with this seen-un-seen presence,
     and i know

a am so small,
and my life so
ludicrous,
like the air
that comes
                      and goes
out of its own control,
but,
                                               i am too small,
and unable
to stop this, its invisible assault.

II


when i am a-float upon
the great lakes, the oceans
the
      rolling
                    rivers
i live
like a tiny slab of flotsam or
     driftwood
sailing
             slowly,
circularly,
(oh-so!) quietly
                                running,
reeling the peeling painted oars of my boat
against
the grainy flashing surface of the waters
                                 rumbling,
                                                                                  rolling
                                                                                       away
this insatiable yearning
to go wherever it takes me to go, but
i know
              i am very small,
and cannot control the eddy's creeping currents-
constant-currents
thus
          submitting
my wayfaring self
to the
unfathomable.

III
__

these trees towering
                                         above me
around me,
the sapling,
the blanketing
                              (in my lifetime)
                                blooming branches
creating
an emotional, outer, physical, inner, spiritual
                              dwindling
like the leaves left shivering beneath the cold winter's frost,
once casually
                falling,
                              dropping,
drying up around my soul
slipping
into silent winter slumber,
to awaken
                     again...
                                    --and then!
(to the dismay of my self-enlightened discovery)
i see
how small
                                            i am
only to return again
from that brownish-moist
soil-bed
                like a seed
beneath
                  the ground
                                        never sprouting,
only fogetting,
the once and always forvever
and ever
the natural
insignificance
                                                                 of being.

Coffee and Tea, I'll take them both,
Light me up another smoke,
Have a piece of Shoo-Fly pie,
Hear the birdies in the sky,
Take my pen in trembling hand,
Compose some poetry, if I can.

I am,
however, no hero,
just a lowly poet
in the always
and forever
quest for the pursuit of
truth...

with these, my tired, aging hands,
i would weave a floral garland strand,
create a wreath of petals sweet,
place it upon your head so neat,
and in the setting of the day,
we'd frolic and we'd dance and play,
like young lovers do and for all time,
you'd love me and i'd call you mine.

Has feathers,
sleeps in the nook,
by a red rock,
and the title of this poem,
made you look
at my ****.

__
To see a photo of my ****:
http://beautyineverything.com/5048983478

i want you if
even for the
shortest moment
of time
even if knowing
our hellos
will also be
goodbye.

i want
you

to hold me.