Jack

A wraith in the moonlight, I silently creep

as tendrils of ground-fog down dark alleys seep.

Avoiding the light, to the shadows I keep;

the city is mine as the innocent sleep.

A pause near the top of a stairway quite steep,

below me a tavern; their whiskey is cheap.

I watch a whore exit and don’t make a peep,

but focus on waiting and timing my leap;

The sins she has sown are now all mine to reap!

My knife does its work, and she falls in a heap.

In life she was garbage; she’s better off dead

and spilling her blood means my demon is fed.

With the utmost of caution I remove her head

And carefully keep her hair out of the red.

Her hands come off next, then the part that I dread;

at seeing her naked, desire has fled.

My knife now cuts south of her belly, instead.

I think of the game--the detectives, I’ve led

a merry old chase. They’ve all stumbled and sped,

yet down my true path, not a one of them treads.

In fact, it feels like the Yard’s finest are blind;

and little do they know together we’ve dined.

Their failures to catch me, in my ear they’ve whined

and my hand, the bulk of their warrants has signed!

The pleasure it brings to me deep in my mind,

of knowing that one of them, one day may find

that with the true monster they have been aligned,

is such that I need to replay and rewind

again and again, as my soul becomes lined

with mind movies of the most delicious kind.

It’s hard holding back my need to celebrate,

and so I remind myself that I must wait.

Arranging the body helps alleviate

the worst of the craving. I anticipate

The horror of the lone police delegate

whose duty will force him to then validate

her name, and the witnesses interrogate.

Who cares? It’s not like these whores venerate

anything but the money. They proliferate

like vermin and misery’s all they create.

The beauty I’ve made from this trash makes me weep;

my blade circles her breasts, this last cut goes deep.

In crimson my messages now can be read,

though “Ripper At Large” is all papers have said.

To this horrid name I have become resigned;

My surgical skills? No one yet has opined.

This insult, an attempt to alienate,

is misguided and weak. I’ve discovered of late

I’m cunning and smart and have firmly resolved

these crimes will be now, and forever, unsolved.

#nightdwellers #fiend #WorldBookDay

Note: This classical-style poetry form is known as a Pentadecine. It is a rigid 50-line form, using the pattern: aaaaaaaaaa, bbbbbbbbbb, cccccccccc, dddddddddd, aabbccddee. The form is usually written in iambic pentameter, but for this one I chose to use the more melodic, but slightly longer eleven syllable cadence of amphibrachic tetrameter catalectic. If you aren't familiar with the cadence, think of the children's game, Red Rover.