R.I.P. Jack the Ripper

"R.I.P. Jack the Ripper"

by J.D. Savanyu

Ladies of the night, calling like sirens
dirty angels of London town
a deep illusion of innocence, wafting like fog
lost in a dreary perpetual haze.

Angels in filthy dresses
devils in disguise, catching my scent
hunting their prey
like she-wolves.

But it ends tonight.

I've paid hundreds of harlots with with sixpence
ill-gotten coins for carnal desire
unleashing my anger on those angels
fucking them like animals
leaving them breathless
soaked in seed
begging for more

I could never get enough
more, and more, and more
pounding unpure pussies was all I needed
to feel alive . . .
until it wasn't enough.

I couldn't just take their bodies . . .
I had to take their souls.

Jack the pervert
became Jack the Ripper,
leaving a bloody trail
from brothel to brothel.

Sending five angels to hell
leaving their pretty bodies behind
pretty no more . . .
an unholy mess
for Dear Boss to clean up.

Mister Policeman could never catch me
'cause Mister Ripper was far too clever.

A sleek witty phantom
a dark malevolent shadow
slipping back to the night,
sating my lust for flesh
and blood.

But it ends tonight.

I've sent five angels to hell, and now
it's my turn.

Peering down at my watery grave
the placid peaceful foggy Thames
flowing toward an indifferent sea
invitingly . . .
like an endless orgasm.

Death is not redemption.
Death is only conclusion.

Time for me to seek that undiscovered country
from whose bourne
my infamy will shine
forever.

Turn this water into wine
in remembrance of me.

R.I.P. Jack the Ripper
my humble stone will say . . .
a man who loved fucking
and butchering whores
and who the fuck knows why?

Only me.

I've said enough
and done enough.

Now it's time to meet my maker
in the river.

Whisper a prayer for me, London town.
Whisper a prayer
for everyone.

Many more freaks will kill for sport
but always lose the game
in the end.

Whisper a prayer for the living,
and for those about to die . . .
I salute you.

Farewell, farewell, parting is such sweet sorrow . . .
Tomorow, tomorrow, and tomorrow.

And thus, with no kiss

I sink.

The icy water soothes me, like mother’s milk . . .
a bittersweet end for a twisted man-child
from a womb untimely ripped.