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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1926
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, January 24, 2004 - 5:42 pm: | 
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Thanks Natalie. Hope you can join in soon. AP, Kampong feast? All I've had is a bag of chips!
Dreamed he saw the tarts in rows
Death's unflattering repose
Outside houses, outside shops
Sightless eyes and sagging chops
Throats cut through and fingers clenched
Bonnets off and guts all wrenched
And on it stretched to infinity
This vision of futility
Diemschutz came with pony cart
Jack climbed up and played the part
Took the clenched salute
Held up gimcrack loot
Every whore that he had hollowed
Rose to feet and blindly followed
Clambered on the cart to touch him
Stiffened fingers spread to clutch him
While knife broke in his hand
Crumbled and fell like sand
He awoke to pale moon gleaming
Realised he was still dreaming
Heard a voice in ear
Froze his heart in fear
"You will be comfortable, my dear."
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 765
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, January 25, 2004 - 5:43 am: |
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Pity’s sake, Robert!
That was one hell of a broadside, me rigging is in tatters, out-gunned and out-manoeuvred I retire with ill grace from the engagement.
Superb stuff. I saw so many different things and people in that poem.
I even saw Hitler, did you mean to bring the moustached Austrian house painter in?
It has a wonderful rhythm and beat, almost hypnotic, full of dread and dead, but sparky and spunky too. I shall certainly read it a couple of more times to see what I can drag out of your words, but you’ve done for me good and proper here and I fear no reply will be forthcoming until tonight when I apply liberal doses of SSB to the relevant parts.
Dinner was a disaster but nobody noticed because I got them dead drunk first, next time I’ll give them chips!
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AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 766
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, January 25, 2004 - 7:34 am: |
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Out that spot! (uncle Charles & Jack indulge their hobby)
Hold her down now Jack while I slit her throat
Let’s see if a Catholic bitch will choke
On the filthy words of her filthy Pope
There that’s done the deed
Now watch how she bleed
Careful Jack its on your shoe!
That’ll never do!
What do you do there Jack!?
You’ll put that kidney back
And leave the poor girl’s heart alone
It’s about time we went back home
As quickly as we are able
For our dinner will be on table
Jack! Have a care with that blade
You’ll ruin the incision I already made
Damn you boy! You’ve cut off her ear!
She’ll never see out of those eyes I fear
Now you’ve got blood all over your shirt
Here quickly cover it with some dirt
Careful boy, that was me you nearly sliced
Leave off boy! You can’t kill a whore twice
Give me that knife you meddlesome youth
The cuts you make are quite uncouth
See here how uncle Charles does his work
How he can still make the body jerk
No need for this slashing and ripping apart
And damn you boy, leave that heart!
Ouch! That was me you just jabbed
It’s the girl you’re supposed to stab
Christ Jack! Have a care! That was my arm!
It’s bloody whore you’re supposed to harm!
Damn you child that hurt like hell
You’ve cut my bloody face as well
God I could use a strong glass of rum
Heavens boy! There goes my thumb!
Give me that blade I beg
Too late, you’ve cut me leg
Steady Jack you nearly slit me wrist
And my old heart barely missed
Calm yourself my dear young chap
Ah! Now you’ve stabbed me in the back!
That’s got it off you now boy
That blade you’ll not employ
To harm your dear old friend
Or to heaven send…
Ouch! Curse you boy, my only son
I didn’t know you carried another one
I’ve come over all queer and feel quite sick
Fetch me a doctor boy and make it quick!
I’ll pay you back for this, by heck!
Bastard! That was me dear old neck!
Ah! Jack you’re nowt but a disgrace
To cut so your dear old uncle’s face
Blimey lad! That was a mortal blow
I can feel a funny warm glow
Why my shirt is awash with this red stuff
Come Jack my boy, enough is enough
Not down there boy! Leave me intact
That’s the one thing I cannot lack
Ah! That hurt! I fear I may be loosing my mind
You’ve cut out me eyes and I am quite blind
Jack! Jack! My boy! Are you still there?
Is that my dear boy tugging at my hair?
Jack lad!
Jack!
Jack?
Jack…?
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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1930
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, January 25, 2004 - 7:37 am: |
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AP, thanks. I may have vaguely thought of Hitler.
I'm sure your ship is as seaworthy as ever (apart from a spot of galley trouble) and am looking forward to your next salvo.
Dreamed again of bloody crimes,
Chapman for her womb did yearn -
Placed an advert in the "Times"
Asking for its safe return.
Eddowes came around the corner,
Pointed at the gaping void
Where his earnest knife had torn her
And capricious hands had toyed.
Put her thimble on her finger
Sewed herself quite neatly up,
Said "Old c*ck I cannot linger -
Off to pub to have a sup."
And the policemen, they all knew him,
Chinstraps turned to gash on throat.
When they doffed their helmets to him
Heads fell off and cobbles smote.
Meanwhile sweetest Mary Kelly
Gave her endless Ripper tours.
People queued in courtyard smelly
Just to see the fate of whores.
Paid his coin to J.K.Stephen,
Entered room where Mary lay.
Oh the horror! Kelly even
Swooned and fainted clean away.
But when Gull cracked a joke
He woke up at a stroke.
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1931
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, January 25, 2004 - 7:54 am: |
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AP, your post and mine must have crossed.
Top notch! Packed with jokes, and extremely clever the way you slowed it down and then started it off again with a second knife! Very funny idea, to have Uncle Charles as teacher and Jack going out of control. Loved every word.
I've lost track now of whose turn it is to reply.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 768
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, January 25, 2004 - 10:25 am: |
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Tartooth
Strewth!
Edmund Tartooth
Funny name for an author
Don’t hold much water
Might be a man in woman’s dress
Just like me I could confess
Might be a lady in men’s clothes
Just like me I could suppose
Might be old Cornball herself
Divesting some of her wealth
Distributing her knowledge to the poor
Just like old Jack did for the whore
I’ve never yet tried her out in me bed
And still haven’t a single word read
But she gets my vote every time
On account of paying me a dime
To be nice and sing her praises
Concerning paragraphs and phrases
Yes folks she has rekindled my fire
And more Cornball is all I desire
Cornball for president is what I say
And all folks should read a book a day
We’ll be no wiser or nearer the truth
We’ll not see one jot of one proof
But a damn good read is guaranteed
That and a possible nose bleed
For at such heights the air is rare
And authors fly by without a care
‘whoopee’ they call as they glide along
Six million in the bank can’t be wrong
‘One day I’ll fly away!’ they sing
And off they go on broken wing
‘Man the guns’ the populace cry
Ready again for old Cornball to fly
The guns pound shells into the sky
But tough old turkey does defy
To solve the death of princess Di
The children sigh:
‘Grocer Jack Grocer Jack
We want our money back!’
The children cry:
‘Jack and Jill went up the hill
And Cornball came down with all the money.
Jack sprat he ate no fat
Because Cornball cleared the bowl.’
Cornball I take me hat off to you
And me trousers.
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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1934
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, January 25, 2004 - 11:46 am: |
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Enjoyed that, AP. I wondered what on earth you were going on about there, until I saw the Cornwell thread.
'Twas a day for history,
Greatest day of all, I guess
When Cornwell solved the mystery
That lurks beneath Loch Ness.
"You don't want it found!" she hissed.
"I have new technology.
It is there but it's been missed -
I know your psychology!"
So she called us silly chumps,
Carried on without a care.
Drained the loch with mighty pumps -
'Twas no sign of monster there.
She is naught if not hard-bitten,
Didn't let it spoil her day.
Found some letters beast had written
In his prehistoric way.
Bought up paintings worth a zillion,
Probed and tested as it pleased her,
And spied somethng quite reptilian
In the blessed Mona Lisa.
Now she's found the monster's hole,
And she's being quite specific :
She is going to drain the bowl
Of the ocean called Pacific.
Robert
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AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 770
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, January 25, 2004 - 1:43 pm: |
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Thanks Robert
I've exhausted myself now but your last Cornball effort was so bloody good and funny that I am going to have to drag something out to answer that.
You probably thought - before you found the Cornball thread - that I had gone mad.
A good and worthy diagnosis. |
Natalie Severn
Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 239
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, January 25, 2004 - 3:43 pm: |
|
The one about Thomas hacking up his uncle AP
fascinating thoughts there and I liked the way it read in dialect just as I would imagine too
The others were stunners too |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1945
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 5:37 pm: |
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I enjoyed that, Melissa.I particularly liked "a nightmare of shadows". I liked the image too.
It would be nice to have some JTR drawings, paintings etc to add to the poems and stories.
Robert |
M.Mc.
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 7:51 pm: |
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I only have one JTR type thing at this moment. Some of my stuff is dark but most of it isn't. If you want to go to my art website I'm still working on the URL is... http://melissamcmahan.tripod.com/
I however do not have any good images of my oil canvas work as yet. Mostly computer art for now.
 |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1973
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, January 31, 2004 - 5:29 am: |
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THE LADDIE OF SHALOTT
'Twas a different fairy tale
And another boat did sail
When the bold Sir Lancelot
Sat in room at old Shalott
Mask of steel upon his face
Which did grow to fill the space
Suit of armour hid his frame
Which did grow to be the same
Till skin was steel and steel was skin
In was out and out was in
Saw each lady that did pass
In his crazy crooked glass
Mirror cracked from side to side
With each crack a lady died
Each was but a twisted thread
Woven into pattern red
Still he sits upon his stool
Curse has come upon us all
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1975
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, January 31, 2004 - 11:33 am: |
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With thanks to AP and Jeff
PUZZLE
Long ago a mirror smash
Tremble glass and tinkle crash
Jigsaw puzzle with no lid
Map of nowhere minus grid
Crawling fingers feel the shards
Scattered like a pack of cards
Fingers blindly pieces pick
Little teeth cut nails to quick
Stick the whole lot back together
Stuck and glued with blood for ever
Scan the looking glass anew
Stand amazed for it is you
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 794
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, January 31, 2004 - 11:57 am: |
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Perfect Lover
He would cut a hundred whores from out his flesh
But never a woman would caress
He would carve a beat and tattoo a name
But never with a woman came
To sexual conclusion
For his nightmare confusion
Was to take flesh for his delusion
And then a thousand vampires could feed
On the vast empires of his vast greed
For the sin of the scattering
Compounded by blood spattering
On the sponge soaked envy of his lust
Became quintessential in single thrust
Of power
Into that flower
Where the petal turned its coat
As it did with red blood soak
And with but gentle sound
Fell gently upon the ground
And pools of tears dried in mud
Did mix and mingle with the blood
And with but a black thought
In black was black sought
For others saw colours but not he
He saw but black where black should be
And in the black was a wall of sound
Where great white noise could be found
Gigantic sledge hammer crashes
And all the colour smashes
Into a million of shards of harm
With which he can work his charm
So he can with black the surface cover
And gently kiss that perfect lover.
|
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 795
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, January 31, 2004 - 12:08 pm: |
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Robert
two totally amazing poems!
Absolutely riveting they were... I enjoyed every twist and turn of your words and thought you captured something essential and quite magical here. A dramatic and compelling portrait of Jack.
Strange how without seeing your two poems that I have written something really quite similar, the three could be a trilogy in fact, and I too was inspired by Jeff's excellent comments on another channel, and attempted to work the images of televison noise, black and white, colour and mirrors into the poem.
Great minds and all that. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1977
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, January 31, 2004 - 1:39 pm: |
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Thanks for that, AP, and thanks for that wonderful poem. The words have such a ring to them, and they're so beguiling, that I'd have said this was a great poem even if I didn't understand it (but hopefully I do!) When I turn my mind to the meaning, though, I find a totally convincing portrait of Jack the Ripper.
Lucky for the rest of us that you can't win your own poetry prize!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 796
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, February 01, 2004 - 4:37 am: |
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Jack’s triumphant return to Whitechapel 1.
(We rejoin the loveable Cutbush family after a two year absence whilst Jack has been taking the sea air at the Police Seaside Convalescent Home in Brighton).
‘Well, Jack my boy, it’s damned good to see you again!’ roared uncle Charles as the Brighton to London express chugged its way through the rolling countryside of the South Downs.
‘Ditto, sir!’ called Jack merrily as his eyes took in the moving panorama outside the window of their first class carriage.
‘I must say you are looking fit to burst, boy!’ uncle Charles continued in jocular vein. ‘As fit as a fiddle, and quite the little gentleman now in your fine suit and top hat!’
‘Thank you, sir!’ answered Jack. ‘It has been the sea air and the good homely cooking of Mrs. Johnson that has achieved this marvellous transformation, sir.’
‘Shame about Mrs. Johnson though, wasn’t it Jack?’ asked uncle Charles.
‘Yes sir, quite a tragedy really, apparently the poor woman fell down the stairs and was horribly impaled on the garden shears she was carrying to cut the parsley with, and then it is thought that the house cat, a charming little creature with some unfortunate deformities, called ‘stumpy’, actually attacked her and ripped out her eyes and bit off her ears!’
‘Pon my word!’ roared uncle Charles. ‘This is shameful, the blasted kitten should be put down at once!’
Jack merely smiled secretly to himself.
The door to their carriage slid back abruptly, halting their conversation briefly, and a large gentleman clutching an equally large black bag entered the carriage.
‘I bid you a good day, gentlemen,’ he growled. ‘That seat by your good self is not taken I assume?’
‘Do you address me sir?’ enquired uncle Charles.
‘I do,’ replied the fat jolly fellow as he threw his large bag into the overhead compartment.
There was the slight sound of well oiled metal being eased from stiff leather.
‘The devil you do, sir!’ roared uncle Charles and the fat jolly fellow found himself peering into the barrel of a large service pistol.
‘Have a care sir!’ shouted the fellow. ‘That pistol might be loaded!’
In confirmation uncle Charles squeezed the trigger and planted a bullet in the jolly fellow’s baggage.
‘I take you for a Catholic, sir,’ uncle Charles warned him. ‘And my sincere advice to you is to take your damaged baggage and depart this carriage with as much immediacy as your fat body allows. Do I make myself clear, sir?’
‘Absolutely, sir!’ cried the jolly fellow as he swiftly left the carriage with his black bag.
‘Did you know that jolly fellow, Jack?’ enquired uncle Charles.
‘I believe it was the prime minister, sir,’ replied Jack.
The door slid open again and the conductor called out:
‘Tickets please!’
But being met by a noisy volley of shots fired from uncle Charles’ service pistol quickly left the premises.
‘Now then, Jack my good boy, tell me what you have been about in Brighton for all this time?’ asked uncle Charles, sliding his pistol back into its holster.
‘Why, dear uncle, I have been most busy at the local college there…’
‘Really!’ interrupted uncle Charles. ’College! Who would have thought it, and pray tell, dear boy, what you learn there?’
‘So kind, uncle Charles,’ replied that young worthy. ’I have been studying to become a mortuary attendant, sir, and most edifying and educational it is too sir! Why we spend most of the days chopping up bodies, pulling their limbs off and ripping their organs out…’
The door slid open yet again to reveal an old dowager who made her way painfully to the unoccupied seat by Jack and made her hump comfortable there. Once settled she opened her copy of the ‘Brighton Herald’ and began studying the domestic columns within, leaving uncle Charles a fist hand opportunity to study the lurid headlines splashed across the front page of that worthy organ.
‘Woman found butchered on beach,’ he read aloud. ’Local police are still hunting the killer of the unfortunate house servant, Lilly Langtry, who was found brutally slain and mutilated on Brighton beach two days ago. It is understood that Miss Langtry was employed at the Police Seaside Convalescence Home… sorry Jack, what were you saying?’
‘I was just saying that my new trade allows me wonderful opportunities to indulge my abiding interest in the medical aspects of the human body,’ explained Jack with the enthusiasm shining from his eyes. ‘Why dear uncle Charles, only last week we had the most wonderful corpse on the slab and I was able to discover that by pacing small electrodes on the dead heart I was able to make it leap about all over the place!’
‘Amazing!’ roared uncle Charles. ‘And do you plan to continue this new employment back at home in the capital, my dear boy?’
‘Certainly sir!’ cried Jack. ‘In fact if the old dowager sat next to me doesn’t drop dead in the next few seconds I fear I may have to slaughter her so that I am able to begin my new trade with immediacy.’
The old dowager dropped her newspaper and turned to Jack.
‘Tell me young man?’ she asked in the clipped and measured tones of the aristocrats of the land. ‘Is that not a red-tailed buzzard I see out of the window gliding along besides the train?’
‘So it is, Madame!’ cried Jack in joy. ‘Look, uncle Charles, there is the extremely rare and elusive red-tailed buzzard gliding right outside our window, sir!’
‘Drop the window, Jack!’ uncle Charles commanded, and as the boy did so, uncle Charles slickly eased his service pistol from its holster and then fired a quick and deadly salvo of bullets at the rare bird leaving that poor creature no choice but to die in a sudden explosion of feathers and body parts.
‘Good shot, sir!’ screamed Jack.
‘Excellent shooting,’ remarked the dowager. ‘Tell me, sir, do you ever shoot pheasant?’
‘No madam,’ replied uncle Charles, sliding his weapon back into its holster. ‘We specialise in rabbits, mam, Jack likes his rabbits. Jack show the dear lady your gutting knife.’
Jack withdrew his small cut-throat razor from his jacket pocket and slowly extracted the wicked little blade.
‘Jack is able to slit the throat of a rabbit with that little number and have its guts and skin off in seconds,’ uncle Charles told the dowager. ‘Aren’t you Jack?’
That boy nodded dumbly with drool and saliva running down his chin.
The dowager leant over Jack and ran her thumb along the wicked little blade. ‘Ouch!’ she exclaimed, suddenly sucking her thumb. ‘It is very sharp indeed. I fear I have cut myself!’
Jack stared dumbly at the small amount of blood trickling along his blade and made some very strange noises indeed as he rolled the sleeves of his jacket above his elbows and began making small incisions with the blade in his forearms. Uncle Charles sighed long and loud, rolled the sleeves of his own jacket up, took a small penknife from his pocket, unclasped it and also began making tiny cuts to his forearms.
‘Remarkable!’ said the dowager. ‘I believe self-immolation to be remarkably good for the Christian soul.’
‘I trust mam, that you refer to the good Protestant Christian soul here and not to the scrum-ridden scurvy souls of damn and blast Catholic swine and whores?’ enquired uncle Charles.
‘Indeed I do, kind sir,’ replied the dowager. ‘Why I do believe if there was a Catholic present here in this carriage he would serve you the useful purpose of exercising your blades without the loss of your own precious Protestant blood.’
‘Exactly, mam!’ roared uncle Charles but was interrupted by the sound of a gong being gonged somewhere further up the carriage.
‘Ah, the dinner gong!’ announced the dowager, rising to her feet and adjusting her hump. ‘I am positively famished. Will you two kind gentlemen join me for a spot of lunch?’
‘My pleasure, mam!’ cried uncle Charles putting away his penknife. ‘All this blood letting has given me the devil of an appetite! Why I do believe I could eat an entire whore!’
‘A Catholic one I trust?!’ said the dowager waving a finger at uncle Charles in admonition. ‘You naughty boy!’
‘Come Jack!’ called uncle Charles. ‘Blade away boy, and wash yourself up for lunch.’
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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1983
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, February 01, 2004 - 5:16 am: |
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Rollicking good fun as usual, AP. Very funny choice of words, e.g. "Take your damaged baggage" and the way in which the buzzard shooting was described.
I don't know who the dowager is but I can guess that you have big plans for her! Looking forward to next part.
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1984
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, February 01, 2004 - 8:17 am: |
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Jack came home carrying a parcel, and looking extremely disconsolate.
"What's wrong, Jack?" enquired Uncle Charles.
"I have just been to George Lusk's house to deliver this human kidney, uncle,' replied Jack, holding up the parcel. "But there was a ghastly message on the door."
"I know : 'The Juwes are not the men that will be blamed for nothing' ".
"More frightening than that : 'No Junk Mail' ".
Uncle Charles leapt clear of his chair - all the way to Baffinland. There was snow on his boots when he got back.
"'Pon all the whores in hell! Are there no depths to which these Catholic bastards won't sink?"
"Uncle, Lusk isn't a Catholic."
"Crypto-Catholic bastard, then. Hmm. This is a ten bottle problem..."
Next morning, a huge and mighty cannon was trundled into Alderney Road. Uncle Charles lit the blue touch paper, and retired to the nearest pub. A deafening explosion demolished the walls of Lusk's house while leaving the front door standing intact.
George Lusk, master builder, surveyed the damage from his living room.
"Dear oh dear!" he exclaimed. with a sharp intake of breath. "What a terrible job! What bunch of cowboys built this house?"
"Mr Lusk, sir" said Jack, stepping forward and giving Lusk the parcel through the void where the wall had been. "Butchered whore's kidney for you sir!"
"Thank you, young gentleman," said Lusk, giving Jack a tip.
The next day was cold and wet, especially so for Lusk, whose roof was missing. He decided to address a public meeting :
"He says he'll send me the bloody knife that took it out. But what guarantee will I have that it's the actual knife, eh? I mean, I don't want Jack the Ripper's breadknife, do I?"
(Murmurs of audience approval)
"I'm a poor man, and all I want is the actual knife that I can sell for thousands of pounds on a Ripper tour."
(Whoops of audience approval)
"Well, Jack," said Uncle Charles, putting down the paper in which Lusk's speech was reported. "As a Protestant and an Englishman, you're bound to do the right thing by Lusk."
"But uncle, I fear I can't remember which knife I used now."
"'Pon all the Popes in Hell," said Uncle Charles. "Then you're honour bound to remove t'other kidney, and send Lusk the knife you used for that one."
That night a huge and mighty cannon was trundled into a cemetery, and an enormous crater blasted in the ground.
"Now nip down and whip it out," commanded Uncle Charles.
"Uncle, everything's been blown to smithereens - your cannon's taken everything out!"
Uncle Charles stiffened, gazed into the distance and said : "Then I know my duty."
Next morning, a huge and mighty cannon was trundled into George Lusk's front garden. It had been gift-wrapped, and attached was a note "Guess what's inside. I hope you appreciate the trouble I had in wrapping this, sir."
When Lusk tore the paper off the huge weapon, he gasped in amazement.
"Jack the Ripper's cannon! And I thought it was that screwdriver I ordered!"
Uncle Charles resigned himself to the loss of his cannon, as he still had fifty others....
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 798
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, February 01, 2004 - 10:24 am: |
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Thanks Robert
yours was a good chortling ride as well.
I don't know where the dowager came from... she just happened to walk into the Cutbush's little family reunion.
Funny who you meet on trains.
Must press on with part two then, can't disappoint our vast readership. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1991
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, February 01, 2004 - 5:09 pm: |
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BATS IN THE BELFRY
Up the winding brain stem
Through the empty cells
To the attic mayhem
Of discordant bells
Pealed and pulled in sadness
Tolled in minor key
Dread of worse than madness
Dread of losing Me
Clanging here all night
Heard for miles around
No one hears it right
Just discordant sound
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 800
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, February 02, 2004 - 1:07 pm: |
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Nirvana
Bell doth ring like thunder
In delicate frame of his murky mind
And clang doth rip bell asunder
In devastation, salvation does he find.
And in the long drawn-out peeling
Of layers hidden in time
Does lay a long drawn-out healing
Contained in locked-up rhyme.
Within the peel does come the toll
And down comes hammer, knife and all
And slowly slips away another soul
To answer to the knifeman’s call.
Take my gentle hand to ease that pain
I shall lay you down upon red earth
Then great bell will ring again, and again
Noisy witness to your silent rebirth.
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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1997
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, February 02, 2004 - 3:21 pm: |
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Fantastic poem, AP. You've managed to write a poem that reminds me of a peal of bells - i.e. a thousand resonances, vibrations and undertones. It's rich in associations and beautifully worded.
It was definitely worthwhile me posting my humble effort, if it provoked that one!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 802
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, February 02, 2004 - 4:30 pm: |
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The Journey continues (2)
Over a fine lunch of fried kidneys, marinated in a Porto of such excellent quality that it was almost blood red, uncle Charles and Jack had listened spellbound as the dowager - who they now knew as Madam Blavatsky, the famous occultist and medium - explained carefully to them how everything in life was controlled by the awesome powers of numbers.
Once more safely ensconced in their first-class carriage, uncle Charles exclaimed:
‘So madam, you are telling me that because at lunch I ate 7 kidneys, 12 roasted potatoes, washed down with 4 glasses of sherry, 6 biscuits and 8 slices of cheese, plus 2 excellent cups of Java Lava… and this in total making the number 39, then it means that my life is in grave danger as we speak?’
‘Certainly my dear chap!’ boomed the dowager. ‘Why I am quite astonished I must admit to see you so alive and well, and able to converse with us without the use of a medium.’
At that moment Jack let out a great wail of despair, pulled a massive knife from his waistband and then ran his uncle Charles straight through the shoulder with the blade as if he was a pig for slaughter, and with sufficient force to pin that unfortunate gentleman to the back of his seat.
‘Cripes!!’ screamed uncle Charles as great spouts of blood flew from his shoulder, spattering the dowager and Jack. ‘You’ve done for me, boy! What the devil did you do that for?!’
‘Sorry, uncle Charles!’ cried Jack. ‘But it is your seat number, sir, I had no choice.’
With a great deal of pain, uncle Charles slowly twisted his neck so that he was able to read the small sign behind him bearing the number of his first-class seat.
‘39!’ he squawked.
‘See!’ Madam Blavatsky trilled in triumph. ‘I knew once the number 39 came up then you would be doomed!’
‘Remarkable!’ cried uncle Charles. ‘Now Jack, damn you, dress this wound immediately or I shall blow your damn head off your damn shoulders this instant!’
‘Certainly, sir!’ Jack obliged, for the dear boy enjoyed dressing wounds as much as causing them in the first place.
‘So mam,’ enquired uncle Charles as Jack bandaged his wound. ‘Surely you too must have a particular number that represents great danger for yourself?’
‘Indeed I do!’ answered Madam Blavatsky. ‘And that number is 45 which I avoid at all costs.’
There came the familiar sound of well-oiled metal against hard leather and Madam Blavatsky suddenly found herself on the wrong end of uncle Charles’ service pistol.
‘What do you do there, sir!?’ she cried in alarm.
‘Your number, so to speak, madam, is up!’ roared uncle Charles. ‘Just look at the number on the back of your seat, my dear lady.’
‘But it is number 38!’ Madam Blavatsky exclaimed.
‘Exactly!’ roared uncle Charles. ‘But you forget too easily the 3 coffees and 4 biscuits you took at lunch, madam, and that makes 45!’
And with that uncle Charles fired a round straight at the head of Madam Blavatsky, but due to the fact that he was forced to shoot with the left hand rather than his normal right the bullet merely blew a hole the size of a fist in the well padded seat by madam’s left ear.
‘Have a care, sir!’ she cried. ‘I have just seen 39 crows fly past the carriage window!’
‘Arghhhhh!’ screamed Jack and stabbed his dear uncle Charles in the other shoulder with his great blade.
‘Well done, my dear boy!’ cried Madam Blavatsky. ‘The power of the numbers is supreme!’
Jack withdrew his great blade from uncle Charles’ shoulder, but at that same moment noticed the 7 rings on her fingers.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2002
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, February 02, 2004 - 5:06 pm: |
|
Very funny about the numbers, AP, and clever the way you got in Madam Blavatsky.
The Devil Rides Out, and he rides out on the 8.45 from Brighton.
Robert |
Natalie Severn
Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 251
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Monday, February 02, 2004 - 5:09 pm: |
|
Hi AP and Robert I liked the two poems above a lot-haunting and mystical both.
The stories are also very entertaining again-congratulations to both of you on your endless creativity!
Natalie |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2003
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, February 02, 2004 - 5:21 pm: |
|
Thanks Natalie. Is your computer all right now?
It would be nice to see you and Suzi posting poems and stories again.
And a few paintings wouldn't go amiss! As I said before, I wish I could paint, but it's totally and utterly beyond me.
Robert
|
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 803
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, February 02, 2004 - 5:39 pm: |
|
Thanks so much for your kind comments, Robert.
The inspiration for the poem came entirely from yours. The inspiration for Madam Blavatsky came entirely from the Gang of Two.
And yes, it is about time Natalie drew a gun.
Or pealed an orange. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2004
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, February 02, 2004 - 6:31 pm: |
|
Hi AP
Can't get the bells out of my head.
MORE BATS
Bell was cracked from fault in foundry,
Swivelled and swung but rang not soundly.
Pealed no welcomes, floating gay,
Just a mournful "Keep away".
Loop on loop of bloody rope,
Pulled and tugged in barren hope.
Dripping baby, baptised blade,
North door closed and devil stayed.
Babe is grown,
Dice are thrown.
Nose in communion cup he dips
Marked with the smears of a thousand lips.
Sits on mouldering perch,
Surveys his empty church.
One last pull at the bell,
The tower crumbled and fell.
Robert
|
Natalie Severn
Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 252
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, February 03, 2004 - 3:45 pm: |
|
Hi Robert and AP
Well I have actually been working very hard on a portrait of Polly Nichols and its only a few hours away from being finished.Its composition is from "The Prune" by Manet but its a much faded lady in different clothes and with different features!The computer is mended and at half term I will try to get some of the paintings on the computer but what with work etc I dont seem to have the kind of time to devote to everything I would like.I"m not currently inspired to write
and besides with you two belting them out at the rate of knots its a bit off putting!
Another gem there Robert a bit like Quasimodo[dont know how you spell it but Victor Hugo dreamt him up and Charles Laughton memorably played him---yes that one!
Best Natalie |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2011
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, February 03, 2004 - 3:56 pm: |
|
Thanks Natalie. I would very much like to see your paintings, though I understand that actually sending them in is a bit of a technical problem (I certainly couldn't manage it!)
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 809
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, February 04, 2004 - 1:47 pm: |
|
Back to Whitechapel for Jack! (3)
As the three protagonists were stretchered off the Brighton to London Express, uncle Charles sat up upon his stretcher and called out to Madam Blavatsky:
‘You’re a fine piece of Protestant skirt, Madam, and if I wasn’t already spoken for I should marry you upon this instant!’
‘How kind!’ trilled Madam Blavatsky, thereby allowing the packed bandages around her slit throat to shift slightly and causing her to bleed once again most profusely.
Of the three, Jack had come off the lightest, merely bearing the wounds of self-immolation, but as the dear chap had risen quickly from slitting Madam Blavatsky’s throat - after noting the 7 rings on her fingers - he had bashed his head on the overhead reading lamp and knocked himself unconscious.
The evening papers carried the strange happenings on the Brighton to London Express:
‘KNIFE WIELDING MANAIC STRIKES ON TRAIN!!!!!!
A senior Scotland Yard officer, his nephew and a lady of their acquaintance were horribly attacked and wounded this day in their first-class carriage of the Brighton to London Express. By all accounts the knife wielding maniac burst into their carriage shortly before the train arrived in Waterloo and stabbed them all with a large carving knife.
The senior police officer concerned - who cannot be named and who was by far the most seriously injured of the three, having been stabbed through both shoulders - was able to give a short statement to our reporter before being rushed by ambulance to St Thomas’ Hospital, and we quote him in full:
“Catholic scum bags!” said the officer. “Mark my words, this is obviously the beginning of a cunning and massive Papist Fenian plot designed to bring our wonderful capital to its knees. You can rest assured that I will personally root out these Papist scumbags and shoot every single one of them dead like the Catholic dogs they are!” ‘
Young Jack was quickly patched up by a comely nurse in the out-patient department of the same hospital.
‘What a dreadful thing!’ she cried as she finished off the bandaging to his arms. ‘Attacked in a first-class carriage! What is the world coming to?!’
‘I should like to rip your throat out, madam,’ Jack told her in a keen whisper.
‘You youngsters today!’ she shrieked, whacking Jack playfully around his head. ‘You like to make light of everything. Now off with you, young fellow before I’m tempted to give you a body wash!’
Back home in Aldgate High Street - number 39 - Jack searched high and low for Amelia, his dearest American cousin, but of her there was absolutely no sign, and even though Jack waited on the stairs for her to pounce with her nail scissors - as was her usual habit - she still did not appear.
Finding his mother and aunt stood on their heads in the drawing room and furiously knitting away upside-down, Jack was forced to crouch down on his knees to hold a conversation with them.
‘Mother, dear,’ he asked. ‘Where is dear cousin Amelia? I can’t find her anywhere and I was fondly hoping that she and I could go out onto the streets tonight and play our silly little games.’
‘Oh Jack!’ wailed his mother. ‘Sad news I’m afraid my little chap, but while you were taking your little rest in Brighton your dearest cousin Amelia decided to return to the colonies to pursue her former career as a bank robber, but I’m pleased to tell you that she is doing very well at her new trade.’
‘Splendid!’ cried Jack. ‘If I wasn’t such a busy fellow myself I would jump on a boat and go and join the dear girl. So cousin Amelia fares well then?’
‘Indeed Jack,’ confirmed his auntie. ‘Why as we speak the dear child is serving multiple life sentences in Joliet Prison for the shooting of several policemen, a couple of lawyers and a high court judge, by all accounts she has only escaped the hangman’s noose by a whisker.’
‘Splendid!’ cried Jack once again. ‘I must go and prepare myself a nice hot cup of tea and then kill the cat. Do we still have the cat, mama?’
‘Yes dear,’ Jack’s mother confirmed. ‘It is still hanging in the cellar where you left it.’
‘Oh mama,’ Jack began. ‘There is really one more question I must ask you before I go.’
‘Yes my dear boy,’ replied mother as she knitted furiously away.
‘Why are you and auntie stood on your heads?’ Jack asked.
‘It’s so the Catholics can’t see us!’ his mother whispered back.
‘Splendid!’ screamed Jack. ‘It is so nice to be home and amongst normal folk for a change.’
|
Natalie Severn
Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 253
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, February 04, 2004 - 3:45 pm: |
|
Very enjoyable AP and hilarious.The bit about Uncle Charles sitting up on his stretcher was priceless but I had a really good laugh about most of it[the bit about him bashing his head on the overhead reading lamp was a scream too!
Best Natalie. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2021
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, February 04, 2004 - 4:44 pm: |
|
I agree, AP, a scream all the way. I trust Amelia will bust out of prison at some stage and that Blavatsky will become a regular too.
Barmy and brilliant.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 812
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, February 05, 2004 - 3:35 pm: |
|
Jack back home again (4)
‘Charles dear,’ said Jack’s mother. ‘Would you be so kind as to say grace for the meal today?’
‘Certainly, my dearest sister, I should do so with pride and honour in the return of our beloved Jack!’ cried uncle Charles, but when he attempted to bring his hands together for prayer he found that he was unable to move his arms at all, injured and heavily bandaged as they were.
‘Damn and blast!’ he roared.
‘Charles!’ mother admonished him. ‘I will not have such language at the dinner table! Now please proceed with grace!’
Whilst the family closed their eyes and grasped their hands in fervent prayer, uncle Charles set forth his grace:
‘Our Father which art in heaven, give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us for not sharing it with the Catholic scumbag family next door, may they be freely cursed to hell and back on the bent back of the devil himself, and may they suffer the damn pox and scurvy as well as a thousand other forms of pustulence and pestilence that such Papist Fenian dogs richly deserve. May their reward be as it is in heaven as it is upon the earth and that they are forced to eat pig swill everyday whilst the Papist Fenian scumbags drink pig’s blood and feed on cormorant dung, and may every Jesuit priest rot in hell with a bullet through his addled brain, Amen.’
‘Very nice, Charles!’ cooed mother. ‘You do have such a way with words. Now Jack you will have to spoon feed your dear uncle with the kidney soup I have made specially for him.’
‘Splendid!’ cried Jack and began to pour kidney soup into uncle Charles right ear, the poor fellow having lost the other ear on New Year’s Eve.
‘How’s the new job going, Jack?’ asked uncle Charles as he puffed furiously on a fine Habana which Jack held in his mouth for him as they sat together in the drawing room after dinner.
‘Very slow I fear, dear uncle Charles,’ replied Jack. ‘The Whitechapel mortuary is quite bereft of corpses at the moment, and why, only yesterday I had to make do with a passing bloodhound.’
‘Poor little chap!’ roared uncle Charles as he spat the fine Habana into the roaring log fire. ‘Be a dear boy and hold that decanter of sherry up to my lips and keep it there until it is empty.’
After a resounding belch which actually gained the interest of a passing constable who felt obliged to knock on the door of number 39 and enquire if all was well in the household, uncle Charles continued the conversation:
‘Well Jack my boy, we can’t allow you to be idle my dear little chap, so I must turn my attention and the long arm of the law to seeing if we couldn‘t supply you with a few surplus corpses to keep you busy - did you hear what I said boy? Hah! The ‘long arm of the law’!!’
‘Hopefully the ‘long arm of the law’ will be clutching a sharp blade, dear uncle Charles?’ enquired Jack with wry grin.
If uncle Charles could have slapped his thigh he would have done, instead he hooted with uncontrollable laughter and screamed:
‘The ‘long arm of the law’ hopefully clutching a knife! Oh that is so good Jack that I fear I must empty that other decanter there full of brandy. Give it to me boy! I have a powerful thirst on me now and if I had the use of my hands I would shoot a Catholic stone dead this instant!’
After Jack had allowed uncle Charles to greedily swallow the entire contents of the decanter, and following a belch of such proportion that both auntie and mother left their heads to use their legs to enquire as to the reasoning and purpose behind keeping a wild boar in the drawing room, the conversation between the two men continued unabated.
‘I had thought that I might pop out later this evening and slice up a few whores myself, sir,’ announced Jack.
‘Catholic whores I hope, Jack?’ enquired uncle Charles with a theatrical wink.
‘Well sir I do ask them their religious persuasion before I slice them up, sir, but some of them are not quite sure…’
‘Then kill them boy!’ roared uncle Charles. ’By the devil’s withered organs, slice away my dear little chap, for if they don’t know their religious persuasion then they must be Catholics in disguise! Why, only last week I was almost persuaded that your own mother was not of good Protestant stock as she was dressed in an outfit that could have passed for the Little Sisters of Mercy and I nearly shot her. She shouted out ‘Good King Henry’ at the last moment and I believe that saved her.’
‘You are so kind, uncle Charles!’ screamed Jack.
‘And Jack my boy, you must consider this,’ continued uncle Charles, ‘For now you are set up in the most marvellous position, as there is no need now for you to mutilate them out on the streets where you might catch a cold or something similar, you can just kill them and by god and the very devil himself, the bodies will be delivered to you the very next morning, right to your doorstep and you can mutilate them till your little heart is content in the privacy of your own mortuary!’
‘Splendid, sir!’ screamed Jack, quite beside himself with joy, in fact he was so beside himself with joy that if he turned his head slowly he could actually see himself stood right there by himself.
‘And what’s more, young Jack!’ roared uncle Charles. ’The bastards are actually paying you for the pleasure!’
Both men roared with laughter until the tears ran down their faces.
‘Damn and blast!’ roared uncle Charles. ’I’ve split my bloody stitches!’
|
M.Mc.
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Thursday, February 05, 2004 - 4:20 pm: |
|
To: AP Wolf,
Hum, I'm a bit confused but this story is interesting nonetheless. However, I have to ask you just who is this. Please tell me I must know? Just who is this "uncle Charles" you keep talking about? Are you by chance talking about "Charles Lutwidge Dodgson" Better know to us all as "Lewis Carroll" or another suspect named Charles? |
Kris Law
Detective Sergeant
Username: Kris
Post Number: 121
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, February 05, 2004 - 4:37 pm: |
|
M.Mc.,
I, personally, think poetry is like Gossamer, and one doesn't dissect Gossamer.
But, I've always assumed it was Sir Charles Warren.
Signed,
Catch Me When You Can |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2035
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, February 05, 2004 - 5:29 pm: |
|
Very funny as ever, AP. I loved the whole thing, but Good King Henry was fantastic. I don't know how long you can keep this up, but it's superb fun to read.
Robert |
M.Mc.
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Thursday, February 05, 2004 - 6:42 pm: |
|
Oh Charles Warren, he's not on my list but he sure beats Charles Lutwidge Dodgson AKA Lewis Carroll as JTR. The story makes since to me now, very nice.  Good work man.
PS: Just to let you know I do dissect everything even William Shakespeare. Alas these things I do only because it's in my DNA.  I cannot help what I have become!  |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2041
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, February 06, 2004 - 2:24 am: |
|
PARADOX
He staunched a wound by shedding blood,
Hid a stain by smearing mud.
Held in hand that tiny shell
And hoped all manner of thing would be well.
Now the blows descend again,
Spitter-spattering reddened rain
As we scoop to fill our hole,
Stop the wheel by making it roll,
Plunging dagger deep in Jack,
Yanking out and standing back.
Plumbing hell
To make all well.
Robert
|
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