The Seamstress of Beelzebub
Once upon a time, there was a seamstress
The running stitch ran away in her hands
Her craft was perfected, elegant, graceful and full of skill
Her metal scissors snapped with ease, separating the differing colours of fabric
Like she was cutting apart worlds, so full of brightness and texture
Threaded through and looped around
She worked feverishly to keep the method –
Unravelling the drapery and tugging the streams
Winding them out and pushing them back again
Concentration was her struggle, creation her reward
Her work was paraded around wondrous locations
The nations heralded her as a sensation
A miracle of creation – what else could she want?
The thing on her mind was ill-timed
Just back from the party that was mimed
She let her hair down and looked outside
And saw him. He was standing there, in the street –
A living God, altogether more precious than her fabrics
A burning sensation rose in her throat and her heart beat a melodic rhythm.
She saw the other one – the creature that stood beside him.
Once upon a time there was a girl who wore a hairpin as blue as the indulging ocean
Surely it entranced any man in her path?
Beckoning them like a lighthouse’s bright light,
Men eagerly moved forward and embraced the harlot’s curse.
I shook my head and realised why my husband never came home…
Sharpened scissors dangled before her,
Her work was just beginning.
Red and green were wonderful colours
Portrayed lavishly on a human canvas…
The neighbourhood grew with worry last night –
A girl killed, the first in fifteen years.
More reserved would be appropriate.
I need to focus on the work at hand.
Concentration was her struggle, creation her reward
All problems cast out of her mind, she went back to the celebrations
But walking past the bus station-
And he was with someone else again.
Once upon a time, there was a girl with deep brown eyes, akin to a walnut the colour of the earth.
Her siren’s call seemed to enthral all men and kept them under her sickly spell
As soon as she spoke, all utterances ceased to exist.
I tutted and strode past, realising why my husband never came home…
Sharpened scissors dangled before her,
Her work was partly done.
She sat and drank a newly-brewed wine – the colour of dark, coagulated
The neighbourhood is stark with terror tonight–
The second girl killed within a fortnight.
Strung up like a cloth on the end of the sign down the lane.
But I must focus on my work.
Concentration was my struggle, creation my reward.
Many came from afar to see how they generated sweet concord
And relish it I did, but oh how something was always missing
Since that rainy day in December, my lips once wide with laughter,
Forget what the psychologists say, they’re warped themselves
Lost in their many reports and books
But I retort their advice -
I cross the street and see him again
– exactly as I knew him before
But he’s not alone, that thing is with him.
Once upon a time there was girl who wore a captivating crimson corset,
the fabric clung tight to her waist, making her look like an hourglass.
Her figure drew men to her like bees wanting to pollinate
But unbeknownst to them, this pollen was toxic and deadly.
I laughed and realised how my husband was coming back to me…
Sharpened scissors dangled before me.
The fabric sewn shut and tied.
The neighbourhood was in chaos tonight –
A third girl dead within three weeks.
The news induced a dose of horror –
People fled, like rats running for cover.
Tonight, was the night that I paid him a visit
But he was a bigot – a hypocrite.
Dare he deny me when donned in his harlot’s wardrobe?!
My hard labour was shunned
Denied by the one who was meant to receive it
, self-believe shattered.
I must reap what you sow.
Sharpened scissors dangled before me
My trusty tool was to craft my next masterpiece
but were they always this colour?
The colour of a ruptured rose.