Vi Ransel


Serial Killers - Poem by Vi Ransel

Elise ran,
wild-eyed and wildly,
through the green field, pursued
by an angry man wielding a weapon.
He beat her when he caught her
and threw her
into the back of his van.

He babbled on
about her supple flesh
as Elise’s brown soft eyes
wept terror. And when
the kidnap van suddenly
stopped, he drove her
toward his leering partner,
waiting impatiently to begin
his diligent ministrations.
And then he hit her
- hard -
but not enough
to completely stun her.


As Elise screamed and kicked,
he went methodically about his work,
encircling her white ankle
with a chain and began the ritual,
hoisting her
into the proper position
for his further imposition.
But unlike de Sade,
mere terror and torture
were not enough
to sate him.

The dull knife
began to slit her throat
and white hot sheets of lightening
seared across the surface of her skin.
As the knife plunged all the way in,
Elise screamed, gurgling blood,
again and again and again,
but no one
would be coming
to rescue her.

This Jack the Ripper needed more
than blood, he needed bowels,
her liver, lungs,
her very womb to spill
hot from her body,
absolving him.
He slashed further,
further, further, flayed
and began
to dismember her,
still living dissection.
Was there
an erection?

The last thing Elise saw
was others dancing
the same macabre rhumba,
and multiple moments of blessed death
revealed the man not one in a million,
but one of millions of men
bursting with the same banal blood lust,
using the Earth as an abattoir
to devour the life She births.


'The industrial way of life leads to
the industrial way of death' - Edward Abbey


Comments about Serial Killers by Vi Ransel

There is no comment submitted by members..

Robert Frost

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?



Poem Submitted: Friday, October 3, 2008



[Report Error]