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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:


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

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  

  • At 12:10 AM, Blogger Bleu said…

    The last two stanzas are really working for me. Evocative and powerful.

    Reading your poem here reminds me that no film has come close to representing this story effectively.

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