Peter Pan in rum

Good afternoon gents and girls. Are you comfy, plenty of nibbles about? Good. For here is the tale of Peter Pan, a disgruntled poet with his face slammed against the wall of writers block. His muse drowned in a swig of Cuban

rum. The slim possibility of the next poem at the bottom of each bottle, while 50s Uncle Sam screams red to McCarthy tunes. The Neon sign of Never Never land hotel burns dead, A kingdom of lost youth.

Forever prowled by lost boys, Forever the hunting grounds of the biker king of Hook Who thrusts his lust into the harlot Wendy. All while blood flows to the feisty groans Of the sociopath Crocodile. All these players

don’t know it; All these gamblers of wild beats have their cards on the table. And someone is bluffing for soon the jig is up. Another day dawns on the Neon. Another swig for Peter dearest Another bloody body for the croc,

Another hateful kiss for Wendy from the Hook. Peter walks to the window, Another failed poem brought from futile inspiration. He can fly he can fly. Tinkerbelle’s opiates burn his lobes. The window ledge is now the kingdom of

the drunk, dry stanzas flow like ash from his lips. He can fly he can fly. He is ready for the greatest trip. Alas good fortune emerges. He steps away from the throne, tears taste the lips. Hope bubbles from his stomach.

His anguish breaths in and out the beaten lungs the reality of his horror mumbles to his heart. But the muse oozes back; the drunken haze combines with the opiate mist and falls back. Inspiration has come. He rips the pen

from his breast pocket and rapes his notebook for words. The anguish, the hate and the abyss spill out from the pen into the brutal shape of a poem, a poem of wonderful panicked desperation. Stanzas of bottle

lust cantos of hate and flowing iambs of street crime beating with the sound of soulless sex yet the dirge of weird rang out to the cyclone of a morel of hope. It is finished, his poem. The hazy thought that saved him

from the abyss and returned him to the world. Proud of his opus this poem this hurricane of rotted emotion and hope, he reads it aloud. Peter Pan Breath’s life onto the page and lets the words spill from his

lungs to the world. The sounds of pain laced hope slithers down the broken walls, a broken lass sheds the tears as the word reaches her ears. Like a drug she is intoxicated, a moth to the flame she flows to the poem.

Then to Peter. To his warmth. To Wendy, Peter flows, anguish oozes out of him as they share their warmth. Their moans of heat, their bodies’ groan for the others flesh. Lust turned too love, a cyclone was tamed. The pain was

gone. Replaced by the joy of another soul. It could never last, It could never be, It would be an abomination. A cry of damnation to the world. But Peter and Wendy did not care, they only cared For the Garden of

Eden they represented to each other. Love that can topple Anguished that is drowned How can it last? Wendy and Peter did not know, nor did they care. Their only care was survival. Survival of the joy they had

Survival of the spark that burned now into an inferno. Then the passion had cooled But the flame still there. The two youths parted, but felt life pump in their veins. From the abyss came Peter and from the terror of Hook

came Wendy But the cards still lay, the game was still going. New pieces were to be thrown into the grinder. While the two lovers returned to the swill, the dark biker Was ready to carry out his will. A beast he was with macabre

Joys playing on crooked heart strings. Crooked strings that danced to a hatful desire Crooked Strings that rang to a sinful pleasure Crooked strings that beat to a monsters game Crooked strings

tied into a noose for Wendy’s soul. When those eyes of his pierced the gaze to her, his dark soul churned for another feast to her soul a soul beaten down to the foundation of his wicked kingdom. But Wendy had the glow

The flow of life. When the hook met the harlot, her fury rang out to a powerful roar A roar of defiance A roar of release from years of treacherous hedonism. A roar that transmuted into blows after blow of

vengeance. The biker king de throne, the hook lay in portrait of his blood. Wendy was alive The rush of hate left her arms She felt a vibe in the world. A vibe of peace The lost boys saw it too, the vibe was

now birthed into the world Slipping forth from a womb of agony, the vibe was a scream A scream of defiance to the woes of selfish blood spilt. Selfish blood the croc drank all to eagerly. Selfish blood that drove Hook to a desire for gore

Selfish blood that took Hook to the croc. Selfish blood that forced the croc under command to indulge To indulge in stealing life in the most horrid of dances. To indulge in dances of doom. So the Croc

slithered So the Croc hunted, the aroma of flesh in his nostrils. The aroma flowing from the lifted heart of our dear little harlot. The jaws of the crocs snapped Snapped her soul into shreads. Snapped her body

into bloody abstraction Snapped her life into the black oblivion And even though the vibe stayed at never never land The vibe that lifted so many hearts and ensured a better day The vibe could not stand against a tide of horrors

Horrors that Peter saw from his window He saw the fair flesh of Wendy bled grey, He saw the fair soul trampled to dust, He saw the jaws of doom snap shut. He saw the Hook watching in glee. The love turned to hate, the calm turned to anger.

The vibe became a roar! Peter roared from the throne too the dirt below! He roared to Hook, he roared to Croc. And he roared to all the lost youth of the land. He roared for them to carry out vengeance.

And the lost boys heard with their souls. The croc was beaten dead by many hands, Many hands carrying blood oaths Many hands declaring joy to the doom of croc Many hands forced the Hook upwards to a burning hate.

With a fire axe in hand Peter charged through steps, He charged down the steps to Hook like a deranged Valkyrie With its eyes set on gore. And Hook Charged upwards eyes burning with an awesome Tyranny.

The lost youth cornered the biker king of no throne, And the king cornered the vengeful prince They met in between lands of Never Never land And collided with the force of a monstrous critical mass The axe fell from over Peters head

as if slamming shut A valve that let evil into the world, The hooked knife of the king thrusted forward. In a deadly game their hate locked, the a blade and axe Slashed at one and the other, the blades were locked Simple additions to

lifetimes of wondrous agony. Blood to blood Steel to steel The dance played on Until to the end with one last ugly slash, Of the axe a river of warm red life surged from the Wicked neck of Hook. And the hooked knife slide out from the

torn poet. Slide out letting loose the flow of Peters soul. Game Set Match for the foes And the lost boys watched, they watched they anger, this dance of war. And they sobbed, but felt a great

burden lifted from Atlas shoulders. The hook’s life gurgled to hell. While Peters life left in a sensation like flight A sensation known to all that die. A sensation known as release. For Peter can fly. He can fly he can fly. Fin