1.The Not So White Rabbit
O' my fur and whiskers!
Would some good fellow throw me some scissors？
Cheshire said curiosity killed：-
And I shall kill this fool of dreaming nonsense.
With her curiouser and curiouser.
No invite to present just plunging into my rabbit hole.
Well allow me to teach you a lesson incompetent little mole.
So it would appear I have found myself a stalker,
Chasing my every hop along unknowing of its slaughter.
Stalker this way! For we're so terribly late.
I'm late for a most important date,
The clock is ticking for a most important date.
O' what fun we'll have now you've taken so well to me,
I've chosen the finest cup and saucer for the finest cup of tea.
(Do apologise there is only Tetley!)
And for your headless fate, the most befitting plate.
My pocket watch is ticking for a ripping game of croquet.
The hatter is more intelligent to know：
That down the rabbit's hole is not a place to go.
For at the end my red queen awaits in anger,
To sign, seal and deliver my long eared crimson splendour.
O' my fur and whiskers!
It's shrieking with fun.
Dreamers follow me always into thus my rabbit run.
It is not a dream at all, but an utterly handsome nightmare,
Those who know me well know I'm the lunatic：-
'Tis not the March Hare.
You shall find out soon enough, leading those to danger is a
habit.
Through laughter I wail, with a deathly shake of the tail.
Behold! For I am, the not so white rabbit：-
And allow me to apologise for I think I just ate your Alice.
2.Death To The Heartless
A trauma to the head like the most spirited drink.
It is the ethanol of absinthe, it is how you think.
It sifts through emotion like blood from a wound.
Love is indeed its own hallucinogenic;
Affecting the mind, heart and mood.
A she loves me, he loves me not; Psychotropic.
The flamboyant aspersion of red, so fibre optic.
Or is it sometimes an anxious black cat clawing at confidence？
Possessive some become for worry of appearance.
The jealousy over burdens into disloyalty and doom.
For without trust this infected thorny rose is never to bloom.
There are those clandestine con artists seeking only a bed,
A night of casual affairs with no intent to prosper.
They utter the lies that spin a dizzy head,
The libertine without restrain, the insurance collector;
He is but a dissolute philanderer and she a big spender.
To the grave with loves vapour：-
And the foul scented path you were once led.
Rapturous thoughts will spread through as their buried together,
Death to the heartless, the best thing since sliced bread.
3.A Coffin For A Bed
A rich yet beggared woman hungry for love.
A fibber to all finds a new beloved.
This one be more fitting to her own age;
Soon to rest inside a wooden cage.
Rage for her as she is again plagued.
He's just the same!
Suspicions of another philanderer involved in extra marital
affairs,
Soon to be at one with the zinc.
Decomposing under the stairs.
You know what they say？
In vino veritas, it can shed light on the matter,
Just take a closer look deep down into the wine cellar.
No one mourns his death for he is alive and well,
With thanks to the letter, a cover up.
No shit Sherlock! It would appear we have another vanishing man.
With a lie convincing family and friends,
She is weary from abandonment,
Yet clandestine or open; all social positions.
She is to move on and all men become phantoms.
A lover's wife gains suspicion.
(The fucking slut)Hells manic Juliet is wreaking havoc!
As they lay reeking a more silent panic.
The male corpses lay in unburied coffins!
Amidst the coffins she sits in an armchair.
Whilst they are below pallor and asleep in their box like home,
Frenzy is now over and arsenic glazed Isolde;
No longer reminisces on her courtship throne.
For her thirty-five coffins for a bed,
Find her captured and forgotten in life imprisonment.
4.Of Knives And Whores
From hell read the letter.
Here be Jack, The repulsive ripper;
Of Nichols, Stride, Chapman, Kelly and Eddowes.
Dismembered body parts soiling a white chapel.
Hear the scalpel of a loathsome spook never to be seen,
One for the books of all savage and obscene.
On streets they work, as in shadows he walks.
Ladies be not foolish, at least wear a scarf.
Here be Jack for your throat.
A clean cut act of malicious art.
From hell read the letter.
One's soul separates from its core.
One knows he is soon to slash another whore.
As he wrote in Saucy Jack, Dear Boss and more.
Filling the empty bottles of ginger beer with the good ole red
stuff.
One can't help but be mesmerized by this boar.
A lonely little cretin whose life is a bore,
If he is not out seeking blood or mocking the law.
Positively ingenious serial killer：-
And what a sad little man.
Alas! For why did he do it？
Because he can.
5.Of Rope And Arsenic
Sung after the noose made its killing.
For slaughter, is not absent of laughter.
The killing of a murderer put to death,
For the children and husbands hereafter.
An English heart habitual of the cold.
Arsenic poisoning and insurance could present a finer life,
For this wretched black widow, once a loveless wife.
Persuasive emotion soon lost its effect;
As the hour soon saw this Venus flytrap sentenced to death.
A daemons reserved demeanour asserts innocence：-
And petitions fail.
When presented to the home secretary to no avail.
Sung were the words that she'd be forgotten,
The opposite effect for the rhyme gave life through history;
To this Mary Ann Cotton.
6.To Baudelaire Sinful Extraordinaire
Chronicles of controversy like setting one's head upon a plate,
Of sexuality, of obscurity, condemned near convicted.
This painter of words, of modern gloom and death.
Whose evil fleurs marvel upon any shelf.
In all his hysteria cultivated with passion and terror.
He'd never have believed he reigns as a lyrical therapist;
No not ever.
For in his own words：-
God is the only being who in order to reign, does not even need
to exist
A contemporary counterpart to a raven aristocratic.
Who in his mind one day came a tapping,
As all his soul within him became of burning,
A longful yearning to have wrote these tales long before.
Tales that were a thought in his mind once and nothing more.
We are all born and marked evil, although goodness is always
the product of some art
Truesome words spoken from a dandy heart.
Hats off to you Monsieur Parisian dream!
Of a strange and awe-inspiring scene.
Away with you and his kingdom by the sea;
'T'was many and many a year ago in this kingdom by the sea
That we made toast to the death of lovers upon your balcony.
There are but three things worthy of respect. The priest, the
warrior and the poet. To know, to kill and to create.
You are all those things, above all rare.
Sinfully masterful extraordinaire.
Applause to you Charles Pierre Baudelaire.
7.The Truth Under Paris Bridges
He escaped under the bridges of Paris：-
And inside his jar beat the heart of Chou d'amour.
Once a dissection turned expedition to Le Maison.
Fancy him mad？
This ripper with his Petit-Coeur;
Of royal blood that day smuggled in a handkerchief.
A scalpel to flesh in temple prison.
Now with him it traverses;
Paris bridges, Libraries, churches and on to Le Maison.
This madman and his madness to him; unknown.
Whilst the dying drum weeps in its vitreous home.
In autopsy swindled from the evermore doomed boy,
Identified by a strand of hair in a scientist joy.
An investigation of experimentation and of chance,
To be the son of the trialled then headless;
L'Autre chienne.
8.A Tale Of Bedlam
In 1247 Lucifer's work began in the sweet priory of Bethlem.
A muse; to bemuse patients and amuse physicians.
London's notorious Bedlam,
Where all medicine is practice and not profession.
A playwright of sound mind once uttered these words：
They call me mad; I call them mad and damn them! They outvoted
me!
The wise yet unheard Nathanial Lee.
Sought after Stratford's William Shakespeare,
Whose character of Edgar in the famed King Lear,
Shares a slight resemblance to the tortures here：-
He takes the role of a beggar to remain an English dear.
The tin plated men marked with metal were just like he;
Chilled and badged as 'Curable' or 'Incurable',
By doctor's with hearts as cold as the modern frappe.
1700; Still it stands scandalous and shameful.
Bedlam circus to those then caged animals：-
Silenced experiments and forgotten people.
How lucky I am to walk amongst today's individuals. For if born
in that time happily I would hang from a clock towers steeple.
A penny for a laugh at madness and its antics;
Of the accused, deranged and understandably frantic.
The first Tuesday of every month could make a dead man cry,
For it is free to see the taps to the temples to see them die.
1815, One man paraded the scandal and displayed sympathy.
A surgeon to those unfortunates in this saddening mimicry.
Refusing his hands to pass them into the grasp of cruel fate,
That perpetually tightens its clasp until they suffocate.
He repents and pays no minute to wait,
He remains haunted long after his role terminates,
A result of evil jailed behind Bedlam gates.
Deliriums requiem fell upon deaf ears,
The death song of artists, of royal would be killers.
Not all were so innocent, One has to admit：-
Edward Oxford was out to slaughter Victoria and Albert.
All royals were pathetic targets of that time.
Anyone of power eventually succumbs to a crime.
Through assassination, decapitation or the black cats'
immurement.
Peer into the death of Erzsebet, Antoinette and other able
innocents.
But who's to say English royals did not deserve,
All the revenge plagued lunatics can serve.
The royals played dead and it caught George III,
When Mary Nicholson would bring comeuppance to their perverse.
A mausoleum of daily activities somewhat like this;
Ah, we have a violent one! Chain it to the wall.
In fact dirt always looks better upon the floor,
Restrain then bring the scalpel and the bowl,
Place it to drain below the arm, let the life blood neatly pour.
The inmates are just ghosts withering on evermore.
One should have been fearless enough;
To Quoth the famous raven.
Quoth the Raven, Nevermore!
9.Emerald Blood
'La fée verte' indeed noted a fantasia of bohemian charm.
Sang without Sucre？ How does one live on？
Of worm wood, of aniseed.
No time for tea; Just a pin prick to the tongue.
The hedonism of Esmeralda：-
And her funeral song.
La musee de L'Absinthe; Drink on! Drink on!
Ah! Indulge like the vampire;
But fend off envious ones.
Like tea is to blood;
It's a peasant in the presence of such a vilified drug.
No more than the ordinary spirit and out of body we are.
More Precious for your banishment,
More calming than morphine,
Of one single drop, of one cured pain.
Beside your moonlit spoon, in your nymph manner：-
You're enlightening the room with your gloom and glamour.
Tranquil culinary herb and deathly to malaria,
A friend to a soldiers gore and poisonous by lore.
Absinthe now and absent never.
With just a spoonful of sugar.
The fairy dubbed a knight by poets and more.
One hears your intoxicating concerto through an open door.
The heart wants what the heart wants,
Illustrious emerald blood.
Mon amour, Mon amour.
10.The Cockerels Waltz
Hilarity and a warm heart,
For they say I'm a villain.
I'm a poison dart and like Lucifer I did nose dive from heaven.
Poppycock from a cockerels waltz!
O' there it is!
His laughable taunts; seeking my land, wealth and more.
'Apparently' I've bitten and I've tore!
With this noble mouth, what sickening thoughts!
O' but of course when at court：-
Madame he said The stench of six hundred corpses, near is the
presence of the dead.
Why is it here so close to your quarters？
Listen György, I hissed like a serpent.
Return to your hobby of Lutheran churches.
One knows your Erzsébet is not as delightful.
Give's you no need to ridicule me with blood baths.
I have been left crestfallen but like your István, hell I'm
beautiful!
Before your lies my life was so dull：-
And so thank you dear Shakespeare!
For this stage upon which I shall enthral my audience,
With a veil of grace and of confidence.
11.The Raveness
The wrinkles; they worried me as if loose earth threatened to
bury me.
Alive I was, yet I felt myself dying whilst the angels watched
over prying;
I resisted nothing, so I continued; I knew I'd die trying;
O' The things that are thought up in the follies of sleeping!
A foreign realm where in all clear conscience,
The curious and nefarious as a shadowing Nosferatu come
creeping.
I speak of last night's dream, a thought of soaking in blood;
Which I have to admit felt sinfully good.
A thought that made me snigger, With Sucre vert in hand;
I was aware and as daft as the hatter in my own wonderland.
So there I lay in the watery warmth of all my ignorance,
Deaf to the despair of my crummy victims,
Simply tossing the bodies over the wall and limbs asunder,
Or nailing them down six feet under.
I did regret nothing and cleansed with a smile that dirty word
Murderer,
A grotesque Chelsea grin slashing me in a jolly from ear to ear;
Laughing wild hyena, the dizzy tippler.
My mouth sliced my face with a gasp au contraire,
For in this dream as in life;
I'd rather kill another than be old without hair;
Only a man has the hair which be fashioned of three,
Parted, Un-parted and departed so distasteful for a lady;
So not for me!
The dreamt up devil spawn of Countess Bathory!
Hairs brushing my shoulders like a feather full wing,
I was a vision in black, in fact just about everything!
Captivating in all from my birthday suit to funeral clothes;
Christ! I was as perfect as a verse by Poe!
Though I have to admit I didn't use just about anything.
I preferred those I preyed upon to be like the fresh bloomed
rose;
I especially despised those with the raven's beak for a nose.
This dream contained another, I was not alone;
A royal pain in the arse, moan after moan.
Intruding In this dream the love of my life did question;
What's that thumping sound against wood？
And so it was that I royally hissed;
(and so it was also that from the drink I was terribly pissed)
Silence and sickle a little emerald blood,
You impertinent man it'll do you some good
It's from under the floorboards he continued to argue and
whine,
I knew that he knew ＆ so did nervously chime,
It's the love of my heart soaring for you valentine!
Little did he know where my true beauty lied？
Right beneath him in fact where I stuck her shortly after she
sadly died.
Petite fragile features and virginal innocence, did best dress;
This bathing in blood, absinthe synchronized swimming;
Arthur Gordon Pym adventures of foul over brimming!
Yours truly-
Dead to the world and day dreaming!
Darling sweet Raveness.
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