The Most Magnificent Red

A poem I wrote from the perspective of Jack the Ripper

 

The first time I saw her I knew.

Walking by the Whitechapel I knew.                  

Her hair was graying, but in her youth how the color must’ve shown.                               

She was petite, with small, delicate features.                                         

Her cheekbones were glorious.                                                  

I could almost ignore the five unsightly empty spaces in her smile.                                          

But her beauty had fled.                                                 

I would give it back.                                                              

Rip her apart and stain her with the most magnificent red.

 

Eight days later I saw another begging for her beauty back.                                     

Strongly built this woman, standing only five feet tall.                        

Small blue eyes set into her pallid face on either side of her thick nose                             

framed by waves of dark brown hair streaked with silver.                                                             

Rip her apart and stain her with the most magnificent red.

 

Nearly three weeks had passed with no one calling for my blade.                                        

The Yard must be infuriated by now.                             

I ache for another hideous w***e past her prime to cross my path.                                          

On this day God has smiled upon me.    

Two are sent my way as different from each other as night and day.                                  

Long Liz stands five inches taller than her companion.                             

Her ebony corkscrews and light grey eyes can’t make up for her rotted left lower jaw.                               

As for the other, fierce intelligence hides in her hazel eyes.                                                  

I won’t forget the sultry stink of her deep auburn hair or the blue ink tattoo on her left forearm.              

In the dead of night, in the foul East End the crimson flows free.

 

It’s been over a month, my hands shake as the craving sets in again.                           

I’ve been given names.                            

The Yard calls me the Whitechapel Murderer but I much prefer the name given to me by the journalists.

This will be the last and then I’ll move on.                                                            

I suspect London has had enough of me.                                             

Perhaps I’ll make a big finish.

She’s here.                                                               

Younger than all the others                                 

she stands nearly as tall as I.                                    

Her hair is gold, her eyes blue as the sky,                

her skin like porcelain.                                      

She whimpers like a new born kitten as I paint her gorgeous.                                                 

Rip her apart and stain her with the most magnificent red.