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"The Strange Case of F.T." They say the dead don’t talk the stories I have calculated to deliver a saving grace confessional shared amongst my equal peers, or so I deem you somewhat sometimes seem, less than me, you ardent followers scholars, world leaders, all manner of dignitaries and my most devoted, the high brow pious popes and all manner of pusillanimous priests ... let us not forget, the least - my fellow tongue-clicking friends of the clique those writers of great tomes and happy endings I write of deeper things beneath the skin, which is, just like the way they like to say, a fashionable disgrace, too sensitive "paper thin", I exert from left to right then right to left when I sculpt the rite I write, stories are never neatly executed, but that is the beauty in delivery of my art, mastered with passion, plucking piquant flowers nectariferous, a taste of the taking of life to interlude, claret coloured burgundy spilt in the fire, complicated yet never a work complete, poppies bruised and sweetened, evermore Poe-like I hunger, yet still hunger for more, about love, life and fate - never death, fame always arrives in the wake, posthumously late; Looking into the puddles I stepped over, their brief reflections calling into the labyrinthine shining black opal jewels of mine, I witnessed their crimson flush, I scried reflections of my good self in many darkened mirrors, wicked cracked and rippling red I read the signs, made beauty from the dread; but the one I know the best, my most superlative work, is truly exquisite, refined and abstract, visceral all at once you could even say stops you dead in your tracks hypnotized and Picasso fascinated putting all the pieces back together in the backstory, relaying the re-telling, sweet jesus, joseph and mary, a handsome exercise of sleuthing if ever I gave you one - how should I write this gently gentile into the story, yes, this fits - handed to you on a silver paten like bread consecrated as a sacrament for the Eucharist, really and best ascribed to the only other one with me, we are as one all at once, in the watching, uniquely satisfying one might say - The See, pontifically alter bound and spiritually crippling; I wear many hats but on nights covered in shadow’s shady cape and a big hat such as this, while you sit in the dark reading my cryptic coded thoughts profound - the job’s not finished yet - I am ignored, yet in front of you never found just as this I haunt like Goethe, a man of many talents such as I, seeps like blood behind your gray matter and R.E.M. religious or non-religious eyes quietly possessing your mind, you don’t know who I really am, I cut a fine figure if I do say so myself - softly spoken I'm truly intent reverent in my irreverence chasing the skirts of witches mothers of baby witches ho ho ho ho saved their souls I did I wrote on her eyelids fluttering like the fragile wings of two blue morphing butterflies puzzling at their cocoon release wanting to be free, so I saved them and I set them free, sent them on their merry way to Eternity, in blood I penned two crucifixions on her lids my inscription, still steaming instead of pennies her clouding lightening eyes turning they were, back inside, whites into slim ridges closing and cavernous, last remnants of She, thoughts of a time back to her childhood uneasy to escape happily in this her final dreaming, I looked right through her as if the lines I wrote were messages to be remembered as truly divine while God watched on through mine ho ho ho ho so be it let the others know I am a man of many talents just like Goethe I am first and foremost serially addicted just like you you feel it every time you write the margins of error into your notes, you know it pure, yet without innocence I am a man of many talents jack-of-all-trades I am that I am a man of many talents just like Goethe ho ho ho ho I am that creature I am most devoted to you I am your most beloved Poet I am I am (LadyLabyrinth / 2021) “Dear Darkness” / PJ Harvey https://youtu.be/hAs9B34lleA "The Devil" / PJ Harvey https://youtu.be/09019xe0TiQ "Swiftly he followed her, Ha! Ha! Eagerly followed her, Ho! Ho! From the rank, the greasy soil, Red bubbles oozed and stood; Till it grew a putrid slime, And where'er his horse has trod, The ground plash, plashes, With a wet too like to blood; And chill terrors like a fungus grow. Two witch-babies, ho! ho! ho!" (excerpt, “The Nightmare of the Witch Babies”, Francis Thompson) “I fled Him down the nights and down the days; I fled Him down the arches of the years; I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes I sped…” (excerpt, “The Hound of Heaven”, Francis Thompson) "If you treat an individual as he is, he will remain how he is. But if you treat him as if he were what he ought to be and could be, he will become what he ought to be and could be." Goethe "You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him." Goethe "We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe." Goethe (1) Francis Thompson, Poet (Youtube) https://youtu.be/Ar9oG_Wu7y0 Casebook: Criminology of a Poet Suspects: Francis Thompson (by Richard Patterson) https://www.casebook.org/suspects/ft.html Crime Traveller https://www.crimetraveller.org/2016/02/jack-the-ripper-identity-francis-thompson/

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The Strange Case of Ft

"The Strange Case of F.T." They say the dead don’t talk the stories I have calculated to deliver a saving grace confessional shared amongst my equal peers, or so I deem you somewhat sometimes seem, less than me, you ardent followers scholars, world leaders, all manner of dignitaries and my most devoted, the high brow pious popes and all manner of pusillanimous priests ... let us not forget, the least - my fellow tongue-clicking friends of the clique those writers of great tomes and happy endings I write of deeper things beneath the skin, which is, just like the way they like to say, a fashionable disgrace, too sensitive "paper thin", I exert from left to right then right to left when I sculpt the rite I write, stories are never neatly executed, but that is the beauty in delivery of my art, mastered with passion, plucking piquant flowers nectariferous, a taste of the taking of life to interlude, claret coloured burgundy spilt in the fire, complicated yet never a work complete, poppies bruised and sweetened, evermore Poe-like I hunger, yet still hunger for more, about love, life and fate - never death, fame always arrives in the wake, posthumously late; Looking into the puddles I stepped over, their brief reflections calling into the labyrinthine shining black opal jewels of mine, I witnessed their crimson flush, I scried reflections of my good self in many darkened mirrors, wicked cracked and rippling red I read the signs, made beauty from the dread; but the one I know the best, my most superlative work, is truly exquisite, refined and abstract, visceral all at once you could even say stops you dead in your tracks hypnotized and Picasso fascinated putting all the pieces back together in the backstory, relaying the re-telling, sweet jesus, joseph and mary, a handsome exercise of sleuthing if ever I gave you one - how should I write this gently gentile into the story, yes, this fits - handed to you on a silver paten like bread consecrated as a sacrament for the Eucharist, really and best ascribed to the only other one with me, we are as one all at once, in the watching, uniquely satisfying one might say - The See, pontifically alter bound and spiritually crippling; I wear many hats but on nights covered in shadow’s shady cape and a big hat such as this, while you sit in the dark reading my cryptic coded thoughts profound - the job’s not finished yet - I am ignored, yet in front of you never found just as this I haunt like Goethe, a man of many talents such as I, seeps like blood behind your gray matter and R.E.M. religious or non-religious eyes quietly possessing your mind, you don’t know who I really am, I cut a fine figure if I do say so myself - softly spoken I'm truly intent reverent in my irreverence chasing the skirts of witches mothers of baby witches ho ho ho ho saved their souls I did I wrote on her eyelids fluttering like the fragile wings of two blue morphing butterflies puzzling at their cocoon release wanting to be free, so I saved them and I set them free, sent them on their merry way to Eternity, in blood I penned two crucifixions on her lids my inscription, still steaming instead of pennies her clouding lightening eyes turning they were, back inside, whites into slim ridges closing and cavernous, last remnants of She, thoughts of a time back to her childhood uneasy to escape happily in this her final dreaming, I looked right through her as if the lines I wrote were messages to be remembered as truly divine while God watched on through mine ho ho ho ho so be it let the others know I am a man of many talents just like Goethe I am first and foremost serially addicted just like you you feel it every time you write the margins of error into your notes, you know it pure, yet without innocence I am a man of many talents jack-of-all-trades I am that I am a man of many talents just like Goethe ho ho ho ho I am that creature I am most devoted to you I am your most beloved Poet I am I am (LadyLabyrinth / 2021) “Dear Darkness” / PJ Harvey https://youtu.be/hAs9B34lleA "The Devil" / PJ Harvey https://youtu.be/09019xe0TiQ "Swiftly he followed her, Ha! Ha! Eagerly followed her, Ho! Ho! From the rank, the greasy soil, Red bubbles oozed and stood; Till it grew a putrid slime, And where'er his horse has trod, The ground plash, plashes, With a wet too like to blood; And chill terrors like a fungus grow. Two witch-babies, ho! ho! ho!" (excerpt, “The Nightmare of the Witch Babies”, Francis Thompson) “I fled Him down the nights and down the days; I fled Him down the arches of the years; I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes I sped…” (excerpt, “The Hound of Heaven”, Francis Thompson) "If you treat an individual as he is, he will remain how he is. But if you treat him as if he were what he ought to be and could be, he will become what he ought to be and could be." Goethe "You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him." Goethe "We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe." Goethe (1) Francis Thompson, Poet (Youtube) https://youtu.be/Ar9oG_Wu7y0 Casebook: Criminology of a Poet Suspects: Francis Thompson (by Richard Patterson) https://www.casebook.org/suspects/ft.html Crime Traveller https://www.crimetraveller.org/2016/02/jack-the-ripper-identity-francis-thompson/