Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
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.
Chris Saitta Jul 9
Death has pluck, you know, the like to sever love,
Then to show unannounced after the ruckus,
Even after so many no-shows at the theatre or club.
Death, indeed, is a tough sport, I am told,
Who plays cricket or some the sort,
Though no one really knows or asks,
“Wicket” does seem a word of choice.
But, for certain, a devil’s ouija hand
Of bridge whist, as sure as lives off
Pall Mall or Regent, as pipes a walk
In the London fog, here and there.
Yes, indeed, I would call him a chum
If he wasn’t such a cad.
For slide video:  https://www.instagram.com/p/BzwQo2zlqNz/?igshid=1vt7piqu9lefb
Marla Jan 15
When I retire,
You haunt me,
Like a nightmare
That chases people through
Their dreams,
Depriving them of rest.
Foul demon,
Be gone from this earth.
Leave us alone to wallow
In the ashes of our youth.
Realeboga M Sep 2018
Shall I compare thee to a winders breeze?
Thou art more cool and clement
Thou art more shinier than the nights stars.
Tis the day they know
The day that they realise how it is you that I cannot fathom.

You have always whispered to me the true nature of the world.
Your energy radiating a voice so pure,
A voice so humbly harmonized
A voiced groomed to perfection,
A sound so perfectly aligned, moved by the hands that have orchestrated.
A sound that has raised my soul through its perfect symphonies.

Shall I say that the winds have whispered to me?
Shakespeare has driven me to an era so old.
An era so new.
An era for hope.

Travel with me.
Let us move to the Victorian lifestyle
Let us challenge Science, philosophy and the wonders of what is now.
Dive into this lifestyle.
And let us compare then to now.
Shakespearean to Victorian.

Travel with me.
To Sonnet 18.1
Katy Jun 2018
Good bye! Awful love, goodbye!
You vile ******, annoying fly
I’ve had it with your awful lies
Be gone, forever, our love is dry

Your vile thoughts ***** my brain
The happy hum that replaced your name
Lowly, you sit in despair, for shame!
You awful love, your name is in vain

Goodbye! You awful love indeed;
So lucky was I to be your need
So silly to think I’d follow your lead
Goodbye awful love, don’t remember me.
CLARYT May 2018
Hush! he approaches
Rush! here his coach is,
Try to silence all the fear your trembling poor heart makes,
Stop! or he'll see you,
Chop! that's what he'll do,
Dismemebering you bit by bit, a moment it will take,
Come! let me show you,
Run! this you must do,
Evade the cuts and thrusts from such a menacing sharp knife,
Look! keep your eyes peeled,
Shook! that's how you feel,
If he ensnares you trust me, he will bleed away your life,
Oops! i've deceived you,
Nice! how i've played you,
enticing you with urgency into my masters lair,
Tricked! how delightful,
Stripped! oh so frightful,
your gut spills forth its contents but your screams are never heard,
Spared! that's what i am,
You! sacraficed lamb,
I live another day while lord and master feeds on you,
Search! nightly i scour,
Creep! in the wee hours,
providing my lords food supply, or i will be killed too......
an attempt at some victorian horror, needs a few tweeks, i'll get round to it soon enough, any ideas? i'd be happy to listen
Vinnie Adams Apr 2018
And
within moments of pity,
pride, possession, avarice;

and still, moments must resentful,
lustful, arduous, close;

some great current, unmoved
unblunted, unweakened, unswerved,
remains aflow;

for common nearness, a bondless magnetism,  
abounds through within faith-constance,
ever-surmounting that sight or scent
there without.
SangAndTranen Apr 2018
You’re preaching your vanity
To my innocent insanity
But I will hide within
While you strut and jut your chin.

Feeble destruction, I confess
Sitting in my pretty dress.
Ribbons of gold and silk of blue
I wouldn’t lift my skirt for you.

Roses white and gentle pink
Stained with red when the thorns *****
To behead a rose - 'tis not wise
Our stinging beauty terrifies.

Among the peonies, footsteps soft
Pretty little ladies’ faces don’t rot.
Corsets choking our manic laughter
Underneath her frills it’s a disaster.

My innocent insanity
Comes with a smile.
Take my paper hand good sir
Stay with me for a while.

You’ll enter blind
And leave a new man
Able to hear
That that is not there
And barely able to stand.
InSanItY
Danielle Mar 2018
A soul, a skip, a time, a page.
Twill and twine, butter me up.
Bowler hat, dapper gray.
Tea and twist, slap it away.
Hatpins stab and teamice snore.
A soul, a skip, a time no more.
The rhythm got stuck in my head for days and wouldn't leave me alone until I have written it out.
Next page