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Edward Jan 8
don't be serious
you must try to smile far more
smile from ear to ear
lynnia hans May 2017
lovely london
the clicking of heels down the cobblestoned streets
where the harlots and johns ever meet
the chilling air wraps around your bones
as the willowy ravens swirl around & croon
blankets of mist and jolting pockets of gloom
linger forever in this dreary doom
MARK RIORDAN Mar 2017
IN LONDON LONG AGO
PEOPLE WERE BEING KILLED
AND THE PUBLIC DIDN'T KNOW


WHO WAS JACK THE RIPPER YOU ASK
THE BOBBIES AT THE TIME
WERE ALL BROUGHT TO TASK


A MAN NAMED ABILENE
INVESTIGATED THE CASE
HE AND HIS MEN
BEGAN THE CHASE


IN 1888 ALL THIS OCCURRED
THE EVIDENCE AND SUSPECTS
HAVE ALWAYS BEEN BLURRED


THE KILLINGS WERE GRUESOME
THE VICTIMS WERE SLAUGHTERED
FATHERS LOST SONS
MOTHERS LOST DAUGHTERS


MANY SUSPECTS CAME TO PASS
BUT JACK WAS NEVER CAUGHT
WHO WAS JACK THE RIPPER
NOW CONCLUSIONS CAN BE SOUGHT


SO THE KILLINGS WILL REMAIN A MYSTERY
TILL THE END OF TIME
WAS HE A DESCENDENT OF YOURS
OR A RELATIVE OF MINE
ONE OF MY BOOKS COMING IS CALLED " TELL ME STRANGE THINGS" A COLLECTION OF POEMS THAT WILL BLOW YOUR MIND. HERE IS ONE
Pauline Russell Mar 2016
You walk with purpose down my street
Thought you wanted to taste all my sweets
Like every other man I meet
That on their wife they want to cheat

You choose me, why I do not know
But on me you did bestow
Your surgically sharp knife leave rivers that flows

Me, you saw fit to disembowell
All that was heard was my painful howl
You ****** that knife into my gut
Made a smooth quick upper cut

I watched my intestines hit the floor
You calmly walked right out the door
I was left with the messy gore
Waves of panic hit my minds shore

As the realization that my life was over
No more looking for that four leaf clover
Nothing mattered any more
This act of yours I do deplore

I grab my body's innards, to shove them back
But didn't seem to have the knack
Such a sad way to end my life
By the blade of Jacks shiny knife
there you are
hiding just outside the glow of the streetlamp
in the alley, waiting patiently

who were you Jack?
you maniac
when did your mind turn?
what twisted event led you here?
keep it under control Jack
I know, she's coming
I hear her footsteps too

was it in your childhood Jack?
did something happen...
beatings in the dark?
were those nightmares real?

why not give that blade to me and walk away...
please Jack...
Jack?
I know...you must
it is what you are...
addiction is a terrible thing

are you ready Jack?
I hear your heart pounding
now make pleasant conversation,
slowly raise the blade as she eats the cherries
very good Jack
now watch as the life slowly leaves her stark, staring eyes
wait for the breathing to cease...
there...now you can go to work
you've left your mark once more
and you are fixed again

who were you Jack?
you maniac
Skye Kennard Nov 2015
Jacky, O Jacky, slaying nymphos in Whitechapel.
Jacky, O Jacky, we're like fish in a barrel.
Jacky, O Jacky, how I wish you could see
Jacky, O Jacky, how much you really mean to me.

If I were to wait right here on street's corner
Would it be me you would come for, your next fresh slaughter?
Perhaps you would slit my throat and leave me for dead
Or perhaps, as a trophy, you would keep my head.

I admire your work; consider me a fan
You chop up those bodies like no-one else can!
Your letters to the police force do make me wonder
How incompetent the blues are, they're like moths in thunder!

I hope that if you **** me you'll take my kidney
So you can write "From ****" 2.0 rather quickly!
I'll even allow you to take my pancreas
And maybe you'll post it in a horse-drawn ambulance.

Jacky, O Jacky, you're a force to be admired.
Jacky, O Jacky, hearing about you will never make me tired.
Jacky, O Jacky, I'm right next to the tree.
Jacky, O Jacky, come play a game with me!
They call me Jack! A Jack the Lad
a man who likes to go out late.
I must confess that I'm a cad
and often seen in Aldegate.

Whitechapel and Spittlefield
are other locations I frequent.
Tis where I often draw my yield
and nay for that I'll not lament.

Inspired by my ill repute,
repugnant chanting of my name,
I'll seek and find a *******,
commencing to secure my fame.

Reference books cannot advise
what two skilled hands can show.
Exacting cuts when I excise,
instructing where my blade doth flow.

My first, Miss Nichols, I recall,
whom blinded by the lure of coin,
into my clutches she did fall
and she, I did indeed refine.

Chapman then I did impress
with incision so demanding.
Nothing taken to excess
an ***** now made outstanding.

Stride and Eddowes in one night
but fortune demanded I should race.
Though well presented to the light,
embarrassment is my disgrace.

My final lady played the game,
Miss Kelly whom at my insistence.
She alone recoiled my fame,
my very own Piece de Resistance.
4 May 2005
© Copyright Christopher K Bayliss 2014
She dies so elegantly
Glorious gore
Sublimely spattered
Across my senses
Watching crimson syrup
Pool stickily on the floorboards
Putrid tang of copper
Wafting up as I inhale
From the core of my soul
The sudden realization that
Cold has a taste as
I gently lick her life
From my stainless blade
Her banshee death wail
Resonating in my skull
Like a struck gong
Titrating in decibel
Like a tuning fork
As her spirit slowly spirals
Down the drain toward her
Own mortifying vision of ****
Her heart and vitals strewn about
The flat like soiled laundry
Gives rise to a fire in my *****
As my chakras glow with the
Insatiable blood **** burning
In the furnace of my desire
I take a step
Give the sign and
Exit on the square
We gather in Old London town,
the time is getting late.
The fog is slowly coming down,
the year is eighteen eighty eight.

The Leather Apron stalks this eve
ladies of the night beware.
Such things he does you wont believe
and for your welfare he’ll not care.

Hello Mister have a heart,
a girl has got to earn a crust.
A shilling for this fine old ****
for you look like a gent to trust.

In her hand the coin doth shine.
Does she lead this toff astray?
Here’s a quiet place that’s fine,
as she walks up the alley-way.

Face to face and eye to eye.
The victim happy to be plied
with vigour she lifts up her skirt
but now her hands are occupied.

Seizing strongly at her throat
he strangles her till unaware.
Unconscious although not yet broke
he lowers her by head and hair.

Now insentient on the ground
the Ripper sets about his work.
In the dark without a sound
there is no detail he will shirk.

He keeps the body to his left,
her throat is sliced from side to side.
The woman’s family now bereft,
whilst she lies here without her pride.

Left to the nights illumination
Jack executes his deadly art.
Performing such skilled mutilation.
and leaving plus one body part.

Daylight opens up commotion,
"Whitechapel Murderer", strikes once more.
The peelers haven’t got a notion
who it is that killed this *****.

Scotland Yard are in despair
as they try to Investigate
their credibility beyond repair
for they cant find this reprobate.

Eventually the death toll, five,
the murders now come to an end.
Folk are free to live their lives
but could you trust even a friend.

Over an hundred years or more
professional research is far to late.
Jack, can we ever know the score?
"No... All you can do is speculate."
1st August 2011 Jack the Ripper series. poem 1.
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