Peter Pan ate our family

It is a matter of what to be used for.

What will one be used for

Chris as terrible spirit affecting all

Kayleigh, her mother, her aunt, grandmother, g’mother

Kayleigh.

Chris.

Ma.

Pete.

Mark.

Brett.

Kathi.

One-Ear Jonny.

Alice in Wonderland fake movies Depp

Chris as the evil AIDS-shot-bro in the black cap the Depp – lashing lovely loving

I wanted to be Depp, art, love, but i failed

there was the 7/18 role

where father could return the week

for with oil,

but would, did

we want him

for only and for hero long

for why and for how long

the kiss that Chris forced

all upon us very really

all but those with manners

was it communicable?

could we all die?

Depp and the girls flew the night

in impact turn

in muppet them

Across the skies he sees the

city-back, the

Kayleigh, the

way-back, the

machine-gunning of theatre-goers

returned the magic-8 ball

musical chairs

who gets

one

who gets

none

?

theatre-goers all

shakespeare’s sword

drag the Conestoga

down the London Brooklyn Charles Town Main

street

Depp lets Chris destroy every storefront all the streets down of town

“LET IT RIDE, LET IT RIDE, MY FRIENDS”

then like

Gene Hackman, no,

Marty Feldman, her

real | dead |

Gepetto husband,

the kindly puppetmaster of all

this,

he reaches down

smiling like the real-happy Cheshire Cat

touches wand to filament , to

friendly spiders’ web

2 strands

all turn magic

family, there

boy, whole

he is a joyous good caring

Pinocchio on-stage

and the lights came up and

we all sighed relief.

Gepetto’s dream come

true

despite its-once-theft

its former once twist by the man who

would become

Chris,

kiss of death

tongue of breen

man of krill

he who be

killer

not just “the killer”

rather

the decider

the controller

the grantor

the deny-or

the withhold

the grow

the die

the curl

the cramp,

kneel to me

breathe for me

sing for me

no, don’t

the cook, clean, cut die crisp

watch me:

take. steal. kill. beg

his real father loved him like Gene Wilder, smiled

benevolent, said

my wife,

this is what i intended

created recipe’d hoped designed for you

for me

for some time it came to

worse than nought but

you you can see my

aim was true, my intent it were noble

for i love you my dear

loved

will love adore for ever

hope;

want to give;

even here

in my death

turn the wide space open arid

empty of my long-since death

i, dead, still at the pray

for you and me long dead,

long longing for you

and for the power,

of death

of grant the power of death

to put upon our ragged son the death

his curse

earned

promised

delivered

begged

demanded

delayed

i, still @ pray for you

my dear,

behold our true son

the one for the getting of which i had to die, we

had to make the trade

if asked, “would you?”

would you have?

if asked,

if come to

choice. decision. desire. salvation

no, of course, no

therefore cam the push to shove

the matter forced

[ like

the

later

kiss

fr the

poison-son

]

but, i digress

and, here, here

arriving what has been this mess

is the stage upon which we would dance

but now, having looked @ the cost,

and me, I tried to

create

not to

accept, to

control

not to

say “drive on”

not to

just simply say

“ok”’

and have it be us, 2, two, and

whoever, whatever came

along

not the $89k wedding, not the

custom pantaloons or

the MG 2-stroke bike

down the stairs you

on back me on front,

not the Peter Pan flies

across the night

ax the night

me, Pete, Ma, Chris all in the

same car, Chris all in black

mumbly-talking speaking reaping

the arrival @ Kayleigh’s sister’s mother’s house, w

the snow, ice froze pond

paddle front lawn,

the we sat in the car

w death-exhaling Chris

while the party inside

the darkened séance

living room of model trains and candles

silent model trains

rolling on air sucked from our lungs after Chris kiss.

Kayleigh’s sisters’s mother,

spirit somewhere there

, air?

, spare?

, dare?

, fair?

, fine fine hair?

, lair?

, rare?

, stare?

, tare?

“you the tare that is

my daughter, you

imposèd tax”

Pete to Chris,

“you the tare, the tax

you, my son, the excise

the duty the none of us could bear”

nor you

nor jolly olde England

that retreated to itself, head

into shell, like the World

the War

the One

that made us all to eat

mud through our feet

—

and this grand this night gala,

the féte

that became the long

weight, the standingby for

yr death,

only for one other,

for yr sister to step

in and assume your fate

to breathe yr lousy air

to breathe yr london air

to breathe yr poisoned seaside

full of dead, failing

propellor war-planes

tearing themselves,

their pistons to bits

museo by museo, and

she breathed in yr

exhaust, yr low-

octane, shit-stained

fuel and you the leper-chaun

dance fr yr council housing room

filled

w

the corpses of yr league

squad battalion of dead cats

all killed gently relentlessly

w the wheezing of yr

gladiolus of yr

wheezing music box

your, you, organ-grinder

organgrinder son

jack-in-the-box

surprise

“say Hi!”

wring the neck,

garrote-in-a-box

and fold back onto yr

box, spring coiled under

and into yr ass

you ass

die jack!

die in yr box!

die in the box of yr

measure twice cut once

yr knit-one, pearl-two

yr count-cadence

delay-cadence

count-cadence

one!

yr quick,

cut,

common

time

yr one-2-3

1-2-3

matilda of a waltz

it could have been you

showed your sister what a man can do

she and her dog-kayak & canoe

and her daddy smoked them cigars

and Chris’ poison-batman in the

house w the head-high (bottom-of)

windows,

the windows through which only Chris could see

he swears a melody, “it’s there.”

“yr just too stupid”

you and your fake chinese food.

you and your fake birthday chinese food by the fake seaside

by a fake seaside on

fake plates with fake huzzahs

fake hurrahs and the

stillborn well-wishes of us in attendance,

for the birthday smelled more like a gravesite

a funeral

a cremation

a condemning

a condemnation

than the birthday party for dolphins

—xxx—

his birth it were a pall

he came and kissed us children each by all

with a knock of our head against the wall

under his scabrous

moth-eaten

leper’s-shawl

the one with the cats them

hanging one by one one

each on his single claw

were not a shine but a pall

of broken blitzkrieg wings and trench warfare

dressed in drag

his weren’t a birth

it was a brawl

not so much a birth as a brawl

[

birth? brawl?

film @ eleven

your call

]