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At Whitechapel, From Shadows Emerging
Of course these gutter whores, whom I must pay
(expensively) will let me have my way.
Submissive, they accept me dominant
because they know that is just what I want.
Because they know they have good coin to gain,
they even pretend to enjoy the pain.
But now that I have become conditioned
to this dark pleasure, it is not sufficient.
Having hired them, and given their permission
to hurt them, I cannot achieve the vision
in its extreme and most intense degree.
No longer is the mere act of infliction
enough; no more the pain and agony
as we have staged on weekend nights as fiction.
They must suffer more realistically.
I need to hurt them with real injury.
I need to toss them to the grip of death
(not mere unconsciousness): the final breath
must bring the ultimate, unyielding fear
and terror in the shadows lurking here.
To trap these sluts; to seize them and attack,
will fill what these past, poor pretenses lack.
And when they bleed upon my flashing blade,
its point, and mine, will be brutally made.
Then I will be no more emasculated---
but much empowered, and outside threats abated.
