The Blood that Jack Spilt —by Stephanie Ellis

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This is the blood that Jack spilt.

 

This is the whore

That gave the blood that Jack spilt.

 

This is the knife

That killed the whore

That gave the blood that Jack spilt.

 

This is the hand

That held the knife

That killed the whore

That gave the blood that Jack spilt.

 

This is the dark

That hid the hand

That held the knife

That killed the whore

That gave the blood that Jack spilt.

 

This is the night watch with a lamp

That lit the dark

That hid the hand

That held the knife

That killed the whore

That gave the blood that Jack spilt.

 

This is the body, desecrated, forlorn

Found by the night watch with a lamp

That lit the dark

That hid the hand

That held the knife

That killed the whore

That gave the blood that Jack spilt.

 

These are the organs, ripped and torn

From the body, desecrated, forlorn

Found by the night watch with a lamp

That lit the dark

That hid the hand

That held the knife

That killed the whore

That gave the blood that Jack spilt.

 

This is Whitechapel, fogbound and poor

That shrouded the organs, ripped and torn

From the body, desecrated, forlorn

Found by the night watch with a lamp

That lit the dark

That hid the hand

That held the knife

That killed the whore

That gave the blood that Jack spilt.

 

Mary Ann Nichols was the name that was borne

By the body in Whitechapel, fogbound and poor

That shrouded the organs, ripped and torn

From the body, desecrated, forlorn

Found by the night watch with a lamp

That lit the dark

That hid the hand

That held the knife

That killed the whore

That gave the blood that Jack spilt.

 

There would be more, did Saucy Jack warn

After Mary Ann Nichols, whose name was borne

By the body in Whitechapel, fogbound and poor

That shrouded the organs, ripped and torn

From the body, desecrated, forlorn

Found by the night watch with a lamp

That lit the dark

That hid the hand

That held the knife

That killed the whore

That gave the blood that Jack spilt.

 

From Dark is my Playground —by Stephanie Ellis. Purchase it here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Playground-collection-twisted-rhymes/dp/1718128347/ref=sr_1_1?crid=OI0L4S3KIN3R&keywords=dark+is+my+playground+stephanie+ellis&qid=1571749330&sprefix=dark+is+my+playground%2Caps%2C142&sr=8-1

My Verse

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It seemed as though my verse had gone;

I hadn’t rhymed in far too long

He took my words and killed them, see;

And then, there was no poetry.

No stanzas came, no stories nor;

All victim to my saboteur

My words no longer coursed through blood;

For what is poetry, sans love?

Of pen and ink: my paper broke;

Of diction: nary a word was spoke.

CM

Sonnet 2,865

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I cannot feel the pain he’s given me
Parental blood be spilled, I hide my thoughts
And as I cannot speak the things I feel
Instead I find I’m saying what I ought.
My birthdate came; he wrote the rules of us:
A contract in accordance with a bond
No more, nor less, no reason for distrust;
He cannot split a kingdom once he’s gone.
Descending into madness left him blind
With horror mainly happening offstage
But had he spoken sanity, been kind,
No need for institution, law, or cage.

A father deaf to youngest daughter’s way
Will never hear the things she ought to say.

SONNET 2,333

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I would not have you fall in love with me
For what would you do then once you are loved?
You’d wrap yourself in everything you see—
For sentiment misleads when hearts are drugged.
You’d tell me how I spin your heart and head
And speak of all the things I have you feel;
You’d fall under my skin and into bed
Where lies the whole percentage of appeal.
But soon I’d be a tiresome little wretch
Who’d fade away, too easy to ignore;
Whose old and rhyming soul falls from the edge;
Too passionate a person to endure.

Unless you are in love with poetry
I pray you: do not fall in love with me.

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LMN

Wilfred’s Men

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A poet’s shattered soul reacts to crumpled men with words intact;

Recalling lies as glory folds, one verse – yet many stories told:

Our Wilfred said they’d cursed through sludge, towards their distant rest they’d trudged;

And Wilfred’s men had lost their boots but limped on, blind; deaf to the hoots.

There, Wilfred saw a hanging face – as death came to his writing-place;

So we could read -at every jolt- of gargled blood to our revolt.

If Wilfred knew – if he could see -dead men survived by poetry,

What would he say – and would he be surprised his words adored by me?

Adored by age, revered by youth; for otherwise-unspoken truth.

If he were now – if he were here, would Wilfred to the world endear?

Or is it likelier he’d see: arms being sold; cash weaponry?

And then the fight to stop it all, this great divide as countries fall?

Perhaps for now, hypocrisy – humanity’s mobocracy:

And as he rhymes of this or that, he’d write: Manus Manum Lavat.

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