From Hell

She stands across the street, laughing and talking
Her wares on display for everyone to see
The wine on her breath repels a few potentials
Someone mutters at her, "Domine dirige nos"

On this side of the street a man looks intently
Watching her as she invites and lures
With a crooked smile, he walks up to her
He whispers in her ear, and she bashfully grins

In the darkness of an alley not far away
Two were in the throes of passion - it seemed
She sees his pupils dilate, smells the laudanum
Before she can think, she feels the blade

In near darkness, we can hear metal slice flesh
We can hear his heartbeat, steady as a rock
As our vision clears, he stands and looks down
Down at his handiwork, at the art he has wrought

A splash of blood, a swirl of intestine
Blood spurts from the slash at her throat
Subcutaneous fat stains his perfect manicure
In his hands he holds her sweetbreads

Below the skin of history are London's veins
His rituals course with energy and meaning
He laughs at a private joke and thinks to himself,
"I have given birth to the 20th century"