Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Peter Pan Grows Cold

Born into a world of promise,
a wee robin crooning for girls
he would never know.

Growing to adoration
in an era bent on motion
he deepened in manly grace
against a wall of his own confusion...
bow-tied against a wall.

A thrill of the dark side
sliding from the moon,
riveting to the shrine of bad...
the boy lingered, wanting only to please
in fragment pose of ghouls who sought
and sold his soul.

A genius hiding in glittered protest...
small hands in glove
briefly clasped the world...
we sang, and in line of his vision,
held hands in his innocent view.

Flying high to expectation in a never-land
of lost paradise, the cynics biting at the chew
in frothy sensation found the chink...
in off the wall antics... a boy who never
meant to harm pleaded in soft-spoken whisper...

He fell from grace in blazer and PJ's,
a face chiseled beyond recognition
by the brutish hook of fame's desire.

A heart breaking stigmata
makes one grow old..,

"I won't grow up, and if someone
tries to make me, I will simply run away." 

There are many ways to run away
in the warped world
of adult illusion...

The hearing is the last sense to go.. I'm told,
a shattering chandelier in silence,
disseminating fractals and fragments
in the dissolute tears.

The horehounds will always snarl and fight
for the afterbirth...
they already devoured the child.

Mother of the lost boys
could not save him here.


  1. The jackals will win in the end..they will devour and move on to other prey

  2. There is winning in the losing... children of a lesser god will prevail.

  3. Great poem. The Peter Pan image is lovely. Very poignant too. I saw the video of him rehearsing a couple of days after his death, and it was strange to think there was a 50-year-old man inside this dancing boy.

  4. Thank you Louise. He was an incredible performer, yet I wonder if he thought his best work was behind him.