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Ripping
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Monday, December 19, 2005 |
It doesn't get much darker - but after that, the light. I'm thinking about Jack the Ripper's victims - surprised to learn that four out of the five were women in their forties, women with sad stories to tell of dead husbands, destitution, drink. It's such a short fall to the gutter for some - boththen and now. Just one young woman of 25, his final victim and the one who got the most - er - attention. You know that feeling in a dream when the worst thing you can think of is heading towards you? There's no escape this is it - all you can do is make yourself wake up? But what if you can't? What if you can't?
Poem so far:
Cheap
Dark Annie, Long Liz, Polly and Kate
A sisterhood of victims, down on their luck
Down on their backs in the alleys of Whitechapel
Working girls wearily plying their trade
Bleary with drink in the gathering dark.
The monocled mutilator
takes his place in the drama
Immaculately turned out
They called him Leather Apron
The master butcher, royal ripper
Seeking easy meat in the careless streets
He plucks each one from the filth
like a dying flower
From boudoir to abbatoir
He reels her into his realm
Slits her throat for the silence
Fillets her like a fish
Spills her guts on the threadbare floor
A lifetime’s menstrual blood
All her periods come at once
Period
Then he vaporises,
Vanishes for all time, hidden
Behind a gallery of aliases
Notorious, glorious Jack
The women loll like broken dolls
Their many mouths stitched silent. |
| 7:11 AM
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panto season - he's behind ya!
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Friday, December 16, 2005 |
| got the light off just a mimsy little candle between me and complete black out the candle being the last sputtering of my sense of myself my identity on the waver as the winds blow and everything shimmers and shakes threatening complete extinction. myself alone v my self with others all the mysteries that this brings up when you rub that lamp what sighs out of the spout what djin do you call up? probably ur-djin the man in question the first genie who brought his own bottle or two and proceeded to down them as a prelude to acts of atrocity. such a big bastard of a djin that avoidance tactics required my own cloak of invisibility leaving a goblin child as a replacement - wow she's done her duty over the years, most people cannot detect the join, are happy with her quiet, adoring obedience whilst invisible woman is off on her own adventures. hardly anybody knows how to sew me to my shadow. instead of seeing this as a sadness i glory in my isolation like some injured child. but there are moments when a peace descends. the tailor arrives with his magic sewing kit, fits all my elements into place and the afternoon segues into evening - come a little closer ... |
| 3:47 AM
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Grim Tales
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Sunday, December 11, 2005 |
Darkest time of the year, darkest time for the soul. SADness everywhere. A v close friend has cancer and I'm working out a way to deal with this, especially that I now know he reads my blog. It's so much better when you don't know that, isn't it? This house is full of spies - and I think they're on to me.
So I will have to revert to code and poetry and see where that gets me. It's made me wonder really about blogs and specifically this blog and its purpose in my life, one among many diaries, journals, writings - all with just a slightly different set of information - not deliberately tailored - or not consciously, anyway - but there's summat goin on here.
You put up this blog in the same way as you accidentally left your notebook hanging around for your husband to read. Take the consequences, like you had to last time. Don't you think that being honest might be simpler? Or is that just a little bit too obvious?
Hmmm. Talking to myself on a blog. For chrissakes.
In spite of the dark and the sadness and worry and phantasmogoria piece I am working on with Jack the Ripper in central position - just every now and again - I feel a strange glimmer of excitement. What's that then? What on earth is that?
Certainly nothing to do with the UB40 gig I went to last night - a friend made me, alright? Brought on a bout of extreme depression. Was sandwiched between two large ladies dancing. Felt like I was in a car wash. They have been doing those numbers for 25 years. It all felt lifeless and mechanical. They chew while they sing. I guess it relieves the boredom. Wished I'd brought some gum myself. What a contrast to the National gig (pic is of Matt the singer) I went to in Leeds recently - they are poets. Passion, wit, tunes. Everything you need. http://americanmary.com/ |
| 10:55 AM
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