NOTE TO THE READER
This yarn is a fuzzy fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together with additional braided tales of human frailty. The looms were purling frantically ...
Some pearls may be found wanting - unwanted or unwonted – piled or hanging loose, dangling free within a frenzied flight of fancy ...
The threads of this untethered tissue may be fastened, or be forgotten, or be stranded by the readers, unravelling in the corners of their minds...
’twill be that some may end up in stitches, others all torn up or ripped apart, while still others may just say ‘made of hole cloth’, ‘sew what’ or ‘I don’t seam to get the needle point’...
This wanton web is yours to spin... with any strings you think may need attaching...
Some have said that
such strange things ‘have Never happened in our Land’,
such quaint things ‘could Never happen in our Land’’,
such murky things ‘will Never happen in our Land’’...
and this may all be true...
such is that gooey gossamer that veils the human mind...
And thus ensues the title of this fabricated Fantasy...
An ancient man named Peter Pan, disguised but from the past,
With feathered cap and tunic wrap and sabre’s sailed his last.
Though fully grown, on dust he’s flown and perched upon a mast
Atop the Walls around the sprawls, unvisited and vast -
And all the while with bitter smile he’s watching us aghast.
As day begins, a spindle spins, it weaves a wanton web;
Like puckered prunes, like midday moons, like yesterday’s celebs,
We scrape and grope, we seldom hope - he’s watching while we ebb:
The organ grinder preaches fine on Sunday afternoons -
He quotes from books but overlooks the Secrets Carved in Runes:
“You’ve tried and toyed, but can’t avoid or shun the pale monsoons,
It’s sink or swim as echoed dim in swinging door saloons”.
The laughingstocks are flinging rocks at ball-and-chained baboons.
While ghetto boys are looting toys preparing for their doom
And Mademoiselles are weaving shells on tapestries with looms,
Cathedral cats and rafter rats are peering in the room,
Where ragged strangers stoop for change, for coppers in the gloom,
Whose thoughts are more upon the doors of crypts in Christmas bloom,
And gold doubloons and silver spoons that tempt beyond the tomb.
Mid Uzi shots from vacant lots, that strike and ricochet
A painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way
To tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
And indiscreet upon the street she gives her pride away
To any guy who’s passing by with time and cash to pay.
(In concert halls beyond the Walls, unjaded girls ballet,
With flowered thoughts of Camelot and dreams of cabarets.)
Continued in Part 2