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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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