Saturday, May 29, 2004
Jack at Rest
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.
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.
