Yesterday’s Poetical Reflections

Welcome to Yesterday’s Poetical Reflections – a sub – series of my poetry directory in which l shall ‘reblog’ some of my previously published content.

Poetry Directory

Chasing the Dragon

Through swirling darkening mists, do killers’ walk,
Upon cobbled stones and dusty forgotten roads,
And in open fields where unsettled spirits do talk,
Of dismembered corpses and where evil does bode,
And should we forget not of one drifting ghoul,
Who has taken residence within many an unsettled mind,
Firmly routing its presence in the very cesspool,
Of those who seek death and kill to pass the time,

With heads full of murder red, and deeds so foul,
Making good folk tremble deep in their sadness,
Whilst they watch beneath their hooded cowl,
Plotting and planning their cunning filthiness,
And oh how we worry for the men and women,
Who may never be safe from this lingering evil,
Knowing that it may not just be us, but the children,
Suffering at the hands of the one known as the devil,

Through time how many bloodied unheard cries,
Or moaning whispers of silence have been shed,
By the victims of the most heinous crimes,
Of those committing murdering death upon the dead,
Shades of grey, black and the brightest red,
Are the colours required by this ugly presence,
Hiding its’ purpose deep inside the killers’ head,
And never do we quite see the mysterious essence,

That has drifted through time and over century,
From its birthplace within olden London,
When it left investigators knee deep in bloody,
Puzzles, corpses, lunacy and burden,
Back then, it was nearly impossible to see,
Nor understand fully what was lurking within,
The blackened mind or voice of the devils’ plea,
And witnesses heard not of the librarians’ confession,

But yet this menace sometimes referred to as ‘Jack’,
Was present long before Whitechapel saw much blood,
And well before modern day devil attacks,
For indeed the presence was anciently aged,
Eighteen eighty – eight, was the time of the Dragon,
Often called the ‘year of the Ripper’,
Sins ruled the slums of London back then,
Allowing murder and death by an unknown author,

To walk freely amongst the streets of the old city,
Enjoying thoroughly the commotion caused by misdeed,
Of finely sharpened instruments used in beastly,
Craftsmanship of human butchery for desire and need,
Perhaps it was by then, having carved his talent,
Into corpses for some fifteen years already,
And as such acquiring the taste of the indecent,
That his skill now sought out true publicity,

Lopping limbs and heads off the unfortunates,
Simply was not enough to arouse attention,
Of the blood hungry press keen to advertise culprits,
And so he began to mutilate into prostitution,
By doing so, and with macabre cunning and shock,
Was the devil thus able to awaken the minds,
That slummed and sinned the cobbled sidewalks,
Of olden London during those swirling misty times,

If an artist wants their work to be clearly seen,
Then of course they must display it in such a way,
Where upon many will come to understand,
How their mind works when at devious play,
With tried, tested and trusted method of slice,
The evil that lingered way back in those times,
Was now able to deliver to the press concise,
Canvasses of skilful and delightfully worked bedtime,

Stories for the readers who despite living in terror,
And walked quickly through cobbled streets,
Were always eager to see and read more,
Of the bloodied torn victims that the devil did meet!
And oh how he managed to secure such an audience,
Where he had failed so miserably to attract,
Proper attention from the murders of the embankment,
And the victims there that he had terribly hacked,

But to leave a torso with nothing attached,
In murky waters of the already untrusted Thames,
Was only to be read into as murderously abstract,
And it was the Whitechapel murders that made him famous,
Yet it was never truly solved and only guesswork,
Could be achieved as to who or what was responsible,
For the dragons’ legacy of handiwork,
Abound in olden London in the scattered brothels,

Was it indeed a Masonic ritual, or perhaps royalty,
Or just some lunatic out for gory artistic leisure,
An unhappy yet skilled butcher looking for beastly,
Cuts to offer to his low paying and complaining buyers,
Was it one or two artists that baffled the police so,
Perhaps the devil had indeed come to London,
On a whirlwind tour of devilry to simply show,
Power at its’ very best, and sliced up for fun,

The police at the time of these foulest murders,
Were baffled, for there were not many genuine clues,
Although darkly reddened letters by unknown authors,
Were sent and delivered to the confuddled blues,
Abstract hand yet learned all the same would write,
In joyful mocking tones and boasting of the foul deeds
Of which they were guilty of in the darkest of night,
And yet took time to warn the police to take heed,

Were these infact letters off the killers’ blooded hand,
Or elaborate hoaxes to throw them off guard,
Perhaps even warnings to not follow the disturbed man,
Who may one day achieve status far from the backyard,
But we will never know, although it must be said,
Those many at the time probably knew only too well,
Of the identity hidden and caped behind the dead,
Who signed off in literary form as ‘from hell’?

And was ‘this killer afoot’ someone quite high,
In the regal sense of the word, a figure of some power,
Who under a draining disease of the mind,
Sought solace under the influence of opium benders?
Chasing the dragon was soon not to be,
For come the year of eighty – nine,
The murdering method was soon to disappear,
Was it truly gone from London, or would it appear another time,

Did the killer simply become bored, or was it stopped,
Was the end due to death, or an exiled entity,
Or had unseen blue forces simply managed to shop,
The evil yet unknown and secreted identity?
Or perhaps, the devilry, the foulest of ghouls,
Awaited in the wings for another unsettled and depraved mind,
And when we look into the years that followed,
We see the inherited evil of the time,

Following in the footsteps of Jacks’ template,
Of depravity, torture, dismemberment and death,
We see the likes of Allitt, Nilsen, Christie and Haigh,
Shipman, Childs, Ireland, Erskine and the West’s,
Hindley and Brady of the early to mid-sixties,
Looking to commit the perfect unsolved murder so foul,
Torturing children who were mere babies,
In comparison to Jack’s ghoul,

And let us not forget Yorkshires’ Sutcliffe,
A starter of the early seventies,
Nicknamed another Ripper,
Yet another merciless killer of prostitutes,
Sadly it’s fact that serial killers will always roam these lands,
And indeed all around the world,
Will we hear of those brutally slain at the dragons’ hands,
For it came off the back of the unfurled,

Legacy of the devilry of the one from the swirling black,
Mists of olden London who went deliberately uncaught,
And who was simply known as ‘Jack’
For it is his spirit that loose in this world has taught,
Killers how to slay with no mercy or forgiving,
Of the souls that they dismember and murder so horribly,
Whilst under the influence of the dragon,
Continue do they with Jack the Rippers’ awful legacy!

© Rory Matier 2011

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10 thoughts on “Yesterday’s Poetical Reflections

      1. I’m afraid that if I can understand the way they think, it will break something in my thinking… I mean, not really, but it’s just so opposite of Empath thinking, which isn’t really “thinking” at all hmmmm… 🤔

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