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It all happened
Once Upon A Time, like in the fairy tales, but
it went backwards
and backwards
and
backwards,
opposite and upside down
like he was in Alice in Wonderland

and the wicked stepmother was not a stepmother at all;
with no pointed chin or sharp daggers for eyes.
Instead she looked like a princess
with a gentle face and round, brown eyes
like a mother.

She was good at goodness
at being kind
at loving him in front of everybody’s eyes
and making him think
it wasn’t so bad, after all.

But she was also good at
shouting
and yelling
and hitting and smacking,
at giving him the belt
and the switch
and sometimes the slipper.

And in his fairy tale
there was no kind, gentle father.
There was no father.
“Gone,” she’d say of him, “drunk somewhere.
With a *****.
Dying, hopefully.
If he was here
he’d **** you.”

Sometimes he
wished,
hoped
his father would come back and
live up to his promise
and ****
and ****
and ****
and ****

and ****
until there was nobody left to ****
because they were all dead and destroyed
and dead
and destroyed
and their clothes mopped up their own blood
and when he was sobered enough to realise what he’d done
he’d stand over them,
mournfully,
and weep
over his drunken mistakes
over just who he had
murdered
with his own knife, who he had cut
cut
cut
jagged shapes into their flesh,
torn pieces of them away
like he had drunk away pieces of himself;
an eye for an eye;
an equal pound of their fair flesh,
cut off and taken,
stolen,
like a jewel in the night.

But no father came,
and he stayed dissatisfied and alive
and his mother came
and belted him
whenever she pleased.

He grew up dissatisfied,
lived dissatisfied,
and anger grew in his bloodied heart,
furious,
bleeding with the pain of it
growing to despise his father’s ******
even more than he despised his father
and his mother
and himself.

He learnt all their names:
Nichols
and Chapman
and Stride and Eddowes

and Kelly.
And he stalked the streets,
searching
searching
searching
searching

searching,
for they had lain with his father
and had wronged him
by leaving him
alone with his mother
and the belt
and the switches,
and if they wronged him,
should he not revenge?
I wrote this one back in 2017 so it's probably not my greatest work. I'm fond of it though, in the same way a parent's fond of their child's paintings.
Jason Lingaya Mar 11
Here there little fella

Here there

C– l – o – s – e – r

Down the aisle

Follow the sign

Tick-tock

Teases a clock

In the shadows

Be brave hither

Heroic never

Trust your host

To guide you

Through an abyss

Of unprecedented bliss

Jack was a wimp

The Ripper I am

At your service

Hesitating still ugh

Never mind fella

Pray hang on

One moment more

Jolly and bright

The darkest alleys

Are my quarters

The austere grounds

On which I Rip Rip Rip

Gluttony is the name

Of my game

Instead of teeth

Dear Lord

Mine are grim lethal

Razor sharp blades

And my throat

A gruesome One-Way ticket

No wonder my stomach

Knows no rest

At your service

The Ripper I am

The infamous

Snowflake Moray Eel.
Childhood fishing memories from Poste-Lafayette, Mauritius.
J Christmas Feb 22
Never let anyone tell you
How ****** up a person is
Pointing at Her or Him
At them or here with
Disdain dressed
To look like despair
God damns the
Sanctimony of fools
Black robes
Far worse for the wear
Let em point at me
I have not a care
Because just like them
I am Jack the Ripper.    I am St. Paul
I sifted salt with Ghandi
And I slit throats with King Saul
I am the ****** Mary
I hear the knocking
on my door  
It may just be the neighbor
A fiend looking to fix me
Or to score.   Either way
We’ve all been here
Countless times maybe more
Its eternity that's calling  
Remember living forever?
Before you were ever born?
I've offered every solace
I've mended every fall  
I’ve turned the other cheek
And the pious broke my jaw
My work here is near done
And trust me I had a ball    
So shed not a tear
Nor curse me to befall      
For soon you will be me
And I will be you all.
Copyright 2019 John D Christmas
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 Morris 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 Hell" 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
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