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Industrias Creativas

Peter Pan

Peter Pan

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

More info. about House of mouse click here

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.

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