Peter Pan
to have a fat and irate father
in a room with the nursemaid
dog pouring tonic into spoons
and licking paws medicinal properties
pan pirate poppycock
it all starts in the stories
we get too old for
where the hook is on
your left hand not right
now George now George
sent to a room of his own
where the nursery & the puppy
stop at nothing but building blocks
and errant skates and children are
kidnapped when the window is left open
so call the police and see how well
they never never land
to be a lost boy is so
poet to brawl and fight
fashion weapons out of supermarket
chain go underground
& mystical appropriation where
the substance nights are long
heavy lit up moments
to be a beat
is so lost and violent shanking
in the jungle where here bottle tops
smashed necks a jugular in leaf-green
dress
mismatch rhythm of clothes
mob mentality and gangs that war
eye-patched and one-handed
you carry your markings forever
which are only a trauma in ink
you can tell us stories
and we will call you Mother
you cannot be lost or beat or boy
women tell their stories with their
ovaries; they must; they need to
In the experimental fairy
nightmares syncopate to dawn
green reverse tulip dresses
Tinkerbelle of trouble
beauty, where in the affective
light of an emotional disco
I was in love with Tigerlily
this whole time
one day, a lantern, ablaze with
reconciliation under the bell
jar turned red glow with anger & trying
in opportunity for flight like jet
or standing in your window
posed, hands on hips, and legs a step apart
the bell-ringing heroes are always
a Judas and pendulous flower-like
move towards their fates, resigned.
with your dangerous metal hand &
your distant look
piratical and a crocodile
on your shoulder; here is the tick of a
time-bombing around the landscape
so old beat so faux
looking all bourgeoisie with that
plumey hat and knee high boots
when the ship is air authority
tight with planks and yoga
downward dog the right hand man
to time’s rising sun.
the cabin boy is the one true fairy
in a world of wings
until you believe
until you clap
until you say it aloud
all of us will be dying
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Acerca del autor
Steven J Fowler
SJ Fowler is a writer, poet and artist who lives in London.
His work has been commissioned by Tate Modern, BBC Radio 3, Somerset House, Tate Britain, the London Sinfonietta, Kettle’s Yard, UNESCO, Whitechapel Gallery, Southbank Centre, National Centre for Writing, National Poetry Library, Science Museum and Liverpool Biennial amongst others.
