Crowds mocked her “beauty”, and peculiar scent.

But the bewildered found gems in those coastal colored eyes,

no matter how distorted the face.

Musk aroma struck fluttering feelings,



butterfly pheromones.

Must have been hoax cologne.

A fool to think since she lacked Venus’ allure,

she would no doubt lack her games.


Lying lips, spit bees, but every kiss seemed cherries.

Falsely comforted in crooked arms.

Humming those songs, that belonged to us,

to discover they could have belonged to strangers.

Eloquent mirage, sculpted for the naive girl’s needs.


Wanted to believe novels of excuses, renowned author of love fiction.

Tattered, tired, thoughts racing for foundation,

blind heroic sense to find the treasured soul,

beauty an illusion.


won’t find devotion searching for ghosts.


Beyond the burnt, stench stained cover,

strong faith the inside was meant to illuminate.

Each ember page turned, more careless and repugnant than the last.

Reading with a Deerstalker hat, compass,

hunting for jewels…suppose.


Found dirt.


Inside wretched grammar smeared with empty torn space.

Simpleton, dreamer?

To think there was anything more…

this poem is a note on the fridge,
written in a passive aggressive language,
and it is valid humour when reading out the note
once more in social situations
to read it as if you have a grape in your throat

this poem is usually a rash decision
the typewriter can’t be…but it looks *******—
writing should be easier than this
I should have visions to draw from
and an imagination to explore

something like sand should be forming words
in my written hand like it did before,
when restraint was what was so badly called for


this poem is a girl I have met and
I bet she has conquered my sorry mind
with battleship magnificence and I, surrendering
at the very first instance of an instant

my pacifist stance has always been
consistent with my fragile optimism
I have a fondness, I have come to learn,
for chance encounters that grow
into the holding of hands
and the mounting of tension

there are mountains,
I’ve mentioned their beauty
in poems revisited since,
but now they blush and ask
who is this you have brought
to our seat in the skies?
observing the intensity
of her avalanche eyes,
and her craggy wisdom,
she was wearing a sort of deerstalker hat...

we visited the library together and read
in reading chairs side by side
this poem is a lamplight conversation and an apology
to Edgar Allen, for we laughed at his prose,
and I pretended to agree in seeing no value
do you see how I simply must be smitten?
(also because this is the worst poem I’ve ever written)

this is, as a poem, a miss/failure, about
a Miss, or perhaps Ms. I met, I miss her
I want to sit with her and her ridiculous portrait of Nietzsche
in a location [insert one here later] with potential for romance

I would relocate a knuckle,
dislocate my awkward self
and let’s drown in the quiet of the lake,
or almost drown, or almost fall in love
and almost climb to the very top of a tree

and almost spend every hour
in the comfort of what you believe


this poem is a kiss on the bridge and all
symbolic meaning that can be drawn from
bridges does not apply, we kissed on a
drawbridge when the drawbridge went up
and we zipped through the city in paper aeroplanes
kept warm by paper coats
and we have floated on lakes in paper boats

we crash landed and were shipwrecked
in the strangest and most unfamiliar places

once, mapless, beautifully hapless, we wandered
lost for hours straight,
when she recognised Community Square,
the sleeping butterfly
I keep in my heart—

    shifted its
     weight...

Annie Chapman, the maiden Smith,
******* daughter of a soldier born,
Parents entered joy of wedlock,
When ******* girl was still a baby.

Got married herself in 1869,
Had three children sweet,
First sweet daughter Emily,
Captured by meningitis bug,
Stole their eldest gal away,
Second child was a lad named John, born tragically disabled,
A third daughter born 1884 who ran away with the circus seeking some fun, when grown.

Marriage crumbled,
Due to sorrow,
Loss of daughter,
Destroyed all tomorrows,
Son was put into institution,
So they could not go on,
Drifted apart on a tide of drink,
Only way not to think,
Separated fell apart in 1884,

Lady 'Annie', with sorrowful heart and hair of brown,
Known as 'Dark Annie'
Maybe because she wore a frown,
She was the victim blessed with civility,
Until the drink contorted her,
Bending her mind,

Early as the daylight rose,
She had found a dark haired fellow,
Wearing deerstalker,
Maybe a friend of Holmes himself,
Although it's sadly doubted,
Probably a client, looking for her wares,

Body slain, lain on the floor,
Not far from her gate,
Throat slashed, viscera scattered around,
Coating her shoulders , with blood spattered dressings,

A neckerchief in situ,
Had he maybe provided a most unpleasant gift,
No financial donation for this poor lady,
Asphyxiation for the lady, she didn't take her daily pills,

Queer perhaps,
Her murderer knew what to do,
Maybe vile ****** man was medical in origin,
Some speculation hinted,
The ****** weapon was an autopsy knife!

This is the story of the second Jack the Ripper victim.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

In his study he sits contemplating
activities of this case at hand
with marvellous mind and fragile heart
talks to Watson as what is planned

His deerstalker hangs wet in the hallway
his cane in the hat stand below
he smokes ******* his pipe
Watson gets his gun, they are ready to go

Adorning their coats
Mrs Hudson appears
wishing them luck
whilst holding back tears

Out of Baker Street
they hail a Hanson
to Charing Cross
to pay Moriarty a visit

How many times Holmes, Watson sighed
have you crossed swords with this villain
My Dear Watson Holmes replyed
evil deeds must stop and I am willing.


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

In his study he sits contemplating
activities of this case at hand
with marvellous mind and fragile heart
talks to Watson as what is planned

His deerstalker hangs wet in the hallway
his cane in the hat stand below
he smokes ******* his pipe
Watson gets his gun, they are ready to go

Adorning their coats
Mrs Hudson appears
wishing them luck
whilst holding back tears

Out of Baker Street
they hail a Hanson
to Charring Cross
to pay Moriarty a visit

How many times Holmes, Watson sighed
have you crossed swords with this villain
My Dear Watson Holmes replied
evil deeds must stop and I am willing.

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

21
MAY
2011



    

I moved awkwardly

she moved like an angel.

I moved close

she moved even closer.

I moved my lips

she moved her hips.

I moved in with six hundred and twenty-one vinyl records

twenty-seven authentic Japanese swords

two black cats and fourteen deerstalker hats.

she moved me right back out.

I guess life is just a moving game

but all the same

I like it.