oddnessmostly

Jack the Ripper is a happy old man. He sips and sips away at his eternal tea as he dwells on fine high times and foggy nights of promise. His overstuffed chair is a comfort to his aching bones. In his prime he was a sprysleek fellow and springy in heel, but he was never Springheel Jack that infamous imp. He was Jack the Ripper who curdled your blood and froze your souls, you gentlemen and ladies. Ladies. He carved those carnal-pleasure-selling cunties up and down indeed and twisted London into infinite knots.

Now he sits in a well-appointed room. He sits. He sits in his cozywarm room of retiring fires. Yes, a fire. Yes, a kettle. Yes, a girl who sees to his needs. He does not want her. No. He does not want to harm her. She is a fine instrument for tending his little needs, for seeing to his feedings, for fluffing up his nest of fading days and dusk-soft dozing.

He is at peace with his misdeeds, Old Jack is. He is at peace with deadly doings. He misses them it's true, but wistfully. And he does not want to do no new ones now now does he? No starting up of lovely troubles in his old age now. No.

Now now, Jack. There there.

Let them all pretend he's dead or in some bedlam-house or prison pit. Let them whisper he's this prince or that stately personage. Let them credit some Jew or cultish conspiracy. Oh so and so. Such and such. Talk on. Talk on. Oh let them go on talking.

Easy, Jack. Easy there, old fellow.

Jack the Ripper knows the truth of what he done.

Jack the Ripper is tired. He is so nicely tired in his fine retirement. He reminisces, yes, but he is not bored nor discontent. He welcomes this numb nothing. Nothing.

Easy, Jack. Now now, Jack. There there.

This is the life then. The easy life. The quiet life. Let them go on out there in the whole wide world beyond his restful room. Let them go on whoring with their heavenly meats and juices. Let their tongues continue to wag about Jack. Jack the Ripper. The butcher. The madman. The monster right around the corner and behind you in the fog all through the night.

Let them go on about their business. Let them go, Jack.

Let them go...

At your mercy every one.

This is not the day of grim little grins nor faces been abandoned by the sense behind them. This day knows of angels surrounding the face of the sun.

This is the angel enraged, his eyes become flame to run across the pages as he reads them.

How you've come to live in me, swimming in this dizziness.

Again I have angered the language. These are not my angels, these languages that lash at me. These are not my demons.

Of course the course is stayed despite the changes and consequence bites back at us who would be steering to the slaughter.

So then this otherworld I've been in lately, I do so much prefer it to the realso, to the socalled. I am so more called to this other one where I belong and you and you are my otherworld, my real, my true.

Why should this thing remain unfinished I do not know. There is a fine finish to other voices the likes of which mine cannot shine as brightly. A voice should shine so as to burn both throat and ears. A voice should singe the song it is forever singing. Let me burn with a music of my own making.

And I am in and out of my mind and out of this comes that entwining I hope of ideas and desires.

Done but with errors therefore undone. The errors reproduce in the shelter of going unnoticed until all unravels, until all is undone. The illusion of being finished stalks and haunts and dogs and here are the howls of this illusion.