Lost Boy - Ruth B

There was a time when I was alone
Nowhere to go and no place to call home
My only friend was the man in the moon
And even sometimes he would go away, too
Then one night, as I closed my eyes
I saw a shadow flying high
He came to me with the sweetest smile
Told me he wanted to talk for awhile
He said, "Peter Pan, that's what they call me
I promise that you'll never be lonely, " and ever since that day
I am a lost boy from Neverland
Usually hanging out with Peter Pan
And when we're bored we play in the woods
Always on the run from Captain Hook
"Run, run, lost boy, " they say to me
Away from all of reality
Neverland is home to lost boys like me
And lost boys like me are free
Neverland is home to lost boys like me
And lost boys like me are free
He sprinkled me in pixie dust and told me to believe
Believe in him and believe in me
Together we will fly away in a cloud of green
To your beautiful destiny
As we soared above the town that never loved me
I realized I finally had a family
Soon enough we reached Neverland
Peacefully my feet hit the sand
And ever since that day
I am a lost boy from Neverland
Usually hanging out with Peter Pan
And when we're bored we play in the woods
Always on the run from Captain Hook
"Run, run, lost boy, " they say to me
Away from all of reality
Neverland is home to lost boys like me
And lost boys like me are free
Neverland is home to lost boys like me
And lost boys like me are free
Peter Pan, Tinkerbell, Wendy Darling
Even Captain Hook, you are my perfect story book
Neverland, I love you so
You are now my home sweet home
Forever a lost boy at last
Peter Pan, Tinkerbell, Wendy Darling
Even Captain Hook, you are my perfect story book
Neverland, I love you so
You are now my home sweet home
Forever a lost boy at last
And for always I will say
I am a lost boy from Neverland
Usually hanging out with Peter Pan
And when we're bored we play in the woods
Always on the run from Captain Hook
"Run, run, lost boy, " they say to me
Away from all of reality
Neverland is home to lost boys like me
And lost boys like me are free
Neverland is home to lost boys like me
And lost boys like me are free

Running shadows closing in.
Feel the wave come crashing in.
Afraid that I have lost my mind.
Darkness creeping behind.

I am lost!
Lost in neverland.
Lost in neverland.
Shouldn’t have build my house on top of sand!
I’m just lost,
Lost in never land, lost in never land.
Won’t you lend a hand?
When I’m lost in never land?

Feeling swallowed by emotions.
Family can’t understand all the commotion.
For they only see the addiction.
Can’t you see That I am the victim?

Running shadows closing in.
Feel the wave come crashing in.
Afraid that I have lost my mind.
Darkness creeping behind.

I am lost!
Lost in neverland.
Lost in neverland.
Shouldn’t have build my house on top of sand!
I just lost,
Lost in never land, lost in never land.
Won’t you lend a hand?
When I’m lost in never land?

Broken bottle on the ground.
Feeling distorted on the ground.
Blood covered floorboards,
Sinking feeling enters my chest,
Toxins filling in the rest,
But most say I should just give it a rest?
But it doesn’t matter if I got on bullet proof  vest,
When my head is exposed.
But sure be my guest.
For if you had to deal with this pest,
Would you pass the test?
My demons rise, while my soul dies and eventually will forever rest.
I’m just lost!
Drowning in my sorrows,
Don’t need taro cards to know my future will end in sorrow.
So, I bury my head and dread the thought of what it might be like to be dead.
When the shadows come rushing in,
Telling me that I’m the vile villain.
And I can only stand these waves for so long,
Before I end up drowning.
And I’m afraid which got my mind spiralling out of control.
All while darkness holds me in its hands,
And I’m just hoping for some council.
But for now...

I am lost!
Lost in neverland, lost in neverland.
Shouldn’t have build my house on top of sand!
I’m just lost,
Lost in neverland, lost in neverland.
Won’t you lend a hand?
When I’m lost in neverland?

NOTE TO THE READER – Once Apun a Time

This yarn is a flossy fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together, adorned with fur-ther braided tails of human frailty. The looms were loosed, purling frantically this febrile fable...

Some pearls may be found wanting – unwanted or unwonted – piled or hanging loose, dangling free within a fuzzy flight of fancy...

The threads of this untethered tissue may be fastened, or be forgotten, or else be stranded by the readers and left unravelling in the knotted corners of their minds...

'twill be perchance that some may  laugh or loll in loopy stitches, else be torn or ripped apart, while others might just simply say “ ’tis made of hole cloth”, “sew what” or “cant seam to get the needle point”...,

yes, a proper disentanglement may take you for a spin on twisted twines of any strings you feel might need attaching or detaching…

picking knits, some may think 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, if credence be dis-carded…

such is that gooey gossamer which vails the human mind...

and thus was born the teasing title of this fabricated Fantasy...

                                NEVER LAND

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 *****, we seldom hope - he watches while we ebb:

The ***** 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 *** 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.)

Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a ****** titters twice,
and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.

The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.

A *** called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
“Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.

The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with ****.
The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
at least imbrue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.

The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.

Old Dan, he’s drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
“I’m feeling pain and crying rain and flailing in the flood
and no god’s there inclined to care I’m always coughing blood.”
The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.

Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
“The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”

A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry ***** -
she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
then stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.

So Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood cling, splattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”

Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, *****, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.

Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.

Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.

The eyes behind the head inclined reflect a universe
of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
of ****** tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
of life’s begin’ in utter sin and other things perverse,
of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
while poets blind, in gallows’ rind, carve epitaphs in verse.

A sodden dreg with wooden leg is dancing for a dime
to sacred psalms and other balms, all ticking with the time.
He’s 22, he’s almost through, he’s melted in his prime,
his bane is firm, the canker worm dissolves his brain to slime.
With slanted scales and twisted jails, his life’s his only crime.

A beggar clump beside a dump has pencil box in hand.
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned,
with no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
The backyard blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
and Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.

While all night queens carve figurines in gelatine and jade,
behind a door and on the floor a deal is finally made;
the painted girl with flaxen curl has plied again her trade
and now the care within her stare has turned a darker shade.
Her lack of guile and parting smile are cutting like a blade.

Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned,
their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.
With no excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
His eyes despair behind the stare, he’s never had a friend
to talk about his hidden doubt of how the world will end -
to die alone on empty throne and other Fates impend.

And soon the boys chase phantom joys and, presto when they’re gone,
the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features drawn,
no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
- like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, in fairy dust chiffon -
with twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.

A boomerang with ebon fang is soaring through the air
to pierce and breach the heart of each and then is called despair.
And as it grows it will oppose and fester everywhere.
And yet the crop that’s at the top will still be unaware.

A lad is stopped by roving cops, who shoot in disregard.
His face is black, he’s on his back, a breeze is breathing hard,
he bleeds and dies, his mama cries, the screaming sky is scarred,
the sheriff and his squad at hand are laughing in the yard.

Now Railroad Bob’s done lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a ****, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.

Bob walks the streets and begs for eats or little jobs for trying
“the answer’s no, you ought to know, no use for you applying,
and don’t be sad, it aint that bad, it’s soon your time for dying.”
The air is thick, his baby’s sick, the cries are multiplying.

Bob’s wife’s in town, she’s broken down, she’s ranting with a fury,
their baby coughs, the doctor scoffs, the snow flies all a’ flurry.
Hard work’s the sin that’s done them in, they skirmish, scrimp and scurry,
and midnight dreams abound with screams. Bob knows he needs to hurry.
It’s getting late, Bob’s tempting fate, his choices cruel and blurry;
he chooses gas, they breathe their last, there’s no more cause to worry.

Per protocols near ivied walls arrayed in sage festoons,
the Countess quips, while giving tips, to crimson caped buffoons:
“To rise from mass to upper class, like twirly bird tycoons,
you stretch the treat you always eat, with tiny tablespoons”

A learned leach begins to teach (with songs upon a liar):
“Within the thrall of Satan’s call to yield to dim desire
lie wicked lies that tantalize the flesh and blood Vampire;
abiding souls with self-control in everyday Hellfire
will rest assured, when once interred, in afterlife’s Empire”.
These words reweave the make believe, while slugs in salt expire,
baptised in tears and rampant fears, all mirrored in the mire.

It’s getting hot on private yachts, though far from desert plains -
“Well, come to think, we’ll have a drink”, Sir Captain Hook ordains.
Beyond the blame and pit of shame, outside the Walled domains,
they pet their pups and raise their cups, take sips of pale champagnes
to touch the tips of languid lips with pearls of purple rains.

Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains
(should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’)”

Arrayed in shawls with crystal *****, and gazing at the moons,
wiled women tease with melodies and spooky loony tunes
while making toasts to holey ghosts on rainy day lagoons:
“Well, here’s to you and others too, embedded in the dunes,
avoid the stares, avoid the snares, avoid the veiled typhoons
and fend your way as every day, ’gainst heavy heeled dragoons.”

The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.

While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”

With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.

The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches after while”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.

The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
(“the last are first, the rich are cursed” - the leached remain the least)
with crossing signs and ****** wines and consecrated yeast.
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and, bored, he nods to Eden East
but doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.

The sinking sun’s at last undone, the sky glows faintly red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.

Fat midnight bats feast, gnawing gnats, and flit away serene
while on the trails in distant dales the lonesome wolverine
sate appetites on foggy nights and days like crystalline.
A migrant feeds on gnats and weeds with fingers far from clean
and thereby’s blessed with barren breast (the easier to wean) -
her baby ***** an arid flux and fades away unseen.

The circus gongs excite the throngs in nighttime Never Land –
they swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
while Acrobats step pitapat across the shifting sands
and Lady Fat adores her cat and oozes charm unplanned.
The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the band,
ask crimson Clowns with painted frowns, to lend a mutant hand,
while Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
lure minds entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
White Elephants in big-top tents sell black tusk contraband
to Sycophants in regiments who overflow the stands,
but No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonely Crowd disbands,
down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their threadbare rags in strands,
and Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.

The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
(She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.

The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage,
but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.

At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.

The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
and bittersweet, from  Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
“The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”

The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...

Peter Pan once took me home
To Neverland

I met everyone
From Captain Hook and Mr. Smee
To Tiger Lily and Tinkerbell

For as long as I could
I stayed with the Lost Boys

But I soon had enough
Of the homesickness
Swelling within

So I left Neverland
But once I returned
I saw that the home I had
Was gone
And the world I knew
Was hidden deep in smog
And metal

"Time passes quick on Neverland,"
Peter told me
"Home is gone,"
Then we flew back to Neverland
Where children came
But never left

Come,Come!
She'd scream
Come,Come with me!
I'll make your dreams come true
Put your heart in my hand
Follow me into a strange land
Come,come with me, won't you?

Follow me into Neverland
Follow me into Neverland
We'll meet with Peter Pan
Follow me to Neverland.

Take me to Wonderland
Leave me in Neverland
Hold my hand
And come with me where dreams are born
And time is never planned
So come with me where you and I are born
And our future is long planned.

We could be mad whenever we want,
Laughing together as we climb vines that seem to go on and on,
Tea parties popping up around every corner,
Where cups refill themselves, and teapots seem to burn with laughter.

We could dance with the Cheshire Cat,
Chasing the shadows and laughing until we’re breathless,
Where rules don’t matter, and everything feels a little off,
But it’s the kind of "off" that makes you feel truly alive.

We could sip tea anytime we please,
Pouring it from cups that never seem to empty,
Sipping away the hours with the White Rabbit, who’s always running late,
While the Mad Hatter’s mad plans unfold around us.

The flowers would talk, and the trees might sing,
The Queen could shout, “Off with their heads!” in her royal way,
But none of it would matter, because here in this world,
Every oddity and every strange moment just fit.

In Wonderland, we’d be free—no worries, no limits,
Living in the madness, where hearts are light and unburdened.
And even when we leave, we’ll remember,
That in Wonderland, joy is something that never stops flowing.

In Neverland, we’ll never grow old,
Where stories of Peter Pan are forever told.
We’ll fly through the skies, carefree and bright,
With Tinker Bell’s sparkles lighting up the night.

We’ll join Peter on adventures untamed,
Wendy’s courage, never to be shamed,
The Lost Boys will laugh and play all day,
As we chase the pirates, keeping fear at bay.

With the fairy dust swirling all around,
We’ll leap and soar without a sound.
No worries, no age, no reason to flee,
In Neverland, we’re wild and free.

We’ll meet Captain Hook, with his pirate crew,
And battle them all, with hearts so true.
We’ll swim in the lagoons, and sail the skies,
Where the stars never fade, and the moon never dies.

Tinker Bell’s wings will guide us through,
With her light, we’ll always know what to do.
And Wendy, with her gentle heart so kind,
Will remind us that adventure is always in our mind.

In Neverland, we’ll live without fear,
Where each moment’s magic is crystal clear.
Together, forever, we’ll laugh and play,
In Neverland, time slips away.

My Wonderland is your Neverland,
We will be forever together, hand in hand.
The same goes for you, and you are for me,
In this endless world, we’re meant to be.

Through the looking glass, we’ll chase our dreams,
In realms where nothing is quite as it seems.
Where time doesn’t pass, and love knows no end,
You are my forever, my love, my friend.

In your Neverland, we’ll never grow old,
Where every moment is a story untold.
I’ll be your Wendy, you’ll be my Peter Pan,
Together, we’ll conquer the skies and the land.

In my Wonderland, we’ll dance in the dark,
Laugh and twirl, leaving our mark.
With the Mad Hatter and Cheshire by our side,
Our hearts forever, nothing to hide.

We’ll explore the unknown, both near and far,
Our love will be our guiding star.
In Wonderland, in Neverland, we’ll be free,
For we are meant for each other, you and me.

Summer nights melt into summer days.

A daze.

Amazed, at how our Neverland became something fallible.

When we were young and innocence pulsed through our veins,

words were light and the air hummed with electricity-

Cotton candy clouds over a watercolor sky.

We were wild things.

The ocean left its mark with kisses in our hair.

Marsh mud, like war paint, adorned our bodies.

Our bodies, like molded ivory.

You braided flowers in my hair,

told me to remember Neverland forever.

I need my Neverland now more than ever.

Summer nights melted into Autumn, Spring,

Rinse, Repeat.

I blink, and stand here at eighteen,

left breathless at the rate

my childhood did evaporate.

There’s still flowers in my hair.

My body, still ivory.

My mind, lost.

Those firefly nights without a care became something quite different.

A witness to the world we destroy-

A martyr of my own breed.

I want. I need,

to tell you.

If you find yourself in Neverland,

never return.

For this world, it hurts like a broken bone.

We collect our things and call it home,

and our left to envy,

the youth and their Neverland.

Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."

Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,
I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?

Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,
where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA., friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,
of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.

even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.

Take a breath,
Say goodbye.
Tonight's the night,
We finally fly.
Up, up, & away,
We can leave this place.
I won't go alone,
We don't need "space".
To Neverland we will go,
Have our dreams come true.
But all of this means nothing,
If I can't be there with you.
So take my hand,
We can go insane.
On our way to a place,
Far, far away.

At seven I heard the story of Peter Pan;

Growing up wasn't part of his plan.

I wish he'd fly through my window sill,

When the stars are bright and the lakes are still.

I would ask him to take me to Neverland,

Where growing up has always been banned,

And never planned.

I'd never have to hear my parents fight,

Everything would finally be alright.

He'd take me through the sky in one big leap,

Over rivers and through mountains steep.

Second star to the right.

Straight on till morning; through the night.

To Neverland.


I'd meet the infamous Tinkerbell,

I knew we'd get on well.

I’d hear her jibber-jabber,

Among the laughter.

I could see Mermaid Lagoon,

As we sink Captain Hook's platoon.

I can join the lost boys; form a family.

Away from the land of the ******; my ruthless reality.

Meet the brave Tiger-Lily,

We could be perfectly silly.

And meet the crocodile who tried to **** time, eating a clock.

Tick tock, tick tock.

I may be able to find a treasure trove.

Maybe I can make a home in a cozy cove.

Peter and I would be as thick as thieves,

I’d make him a crown of leaves.

We will live forever.

To age, we will never surrender.

To live will be an awfully big adventure.

Too far from Peter, I'd never venture.

All you need is faith, trust and pixie dust,

Or you might just combust.


You just have to believe

and you will never have to grieve

and no one would ever leave.

I'd never have to be strong.

I'd never have to care for long.

So let us begin the journey.

To Neverland.

My timeless eternity.

My fantasy.

My delightful daydream.

My bittersweet destiny.

My dreams of Neverland have yet to cease.

And I am already in my late teens.

I found myself stranded on
Neverland
with no way to fly
and no star to show me the way
'till one night
as I closed my eyes
a shadow appeared and a boy
close on his heels
they tumbled and rolled before my feet
Boy and Shadow became one
and grinned at me
"Peter Pan"
he said to me
playing a tune
and swore he just wanted
to talk for a while

Laying amongst the tiger lilies
I so adored and staring up at the stars
He asked me to be his
When I asked why he simply replied
"I once saved you from
Captain Hook."
"I’ll keep you safe."
"I promise you’ll never be lonely.”
Foolishly, I agreed
and he took me to his
Hiding Tree
where spiteful Tinkerbell
tried to be rid of me
for I was Self-Composed, Human & Withdrawn,
everything she was not.
He taught me how to fly,
showed me every nook and cranny
of his world by moonlight.
And I fell in love
with the way, his eyes shone like fireflies
and his pure and genuine laugh.
He was enthralling
and magnetic
always so carefree
and reckless

How wonderful it was

'Till Wendy bird came along
for she was Kind, Romantic & Empathetic
everything I was not
all I could do was watch
as they flew through Neverland
by moonlight
She fell hopelessly in love
with his recklessly playful nature
and hypnotic charms

Yet every night
Wendy gazed down
to see the girl
with the crow feather in her hair
laying amongst the flowers she was named
with Tinkerbell by her side.
Whenever she asked Peter why
he simply replied
“She is as Wild as she is Beautiful.
She cannot be contained
by the hollow walls of my Hiding Tree
Nor the boundaries of her village."

Then one night
when Wendy bird left
and Peter returned to Hangman’s Tree
he found Tiger Lily gone.
Every night he’d fly above
Neverland
only to glimpse
her crow feather
but all he found was an empty space
belonging
to her ghost
whispering
"Peter Pan
Take my hand and fly away
to Neverland
where the beast
within
can be free"

Tinkerbell never did say where she’d gone
only to leave her be.
Her wild beast no longer had a home.

Peter Pan
would never see her again
He had broken his Lily's heart

Well you see,
my skin melted
into a lot of things
last summer. Even my
bones mixed with a
few.

The fact that everything
became a liquid river
passing around my ankles
didn't help.
Time became a
cloud that a giant
walks through on his
way to get food.

My stomach and head
got a little sea-sick on
this voyage. Their ears
never really popped from
this altitude.
My body shivered from
the OD.
My skin burned and
melted with him.
Trees grabbed my
hair, leaves stained my
cheeks.

I had rotten skin
for bones and cracked
ribcages for flesh.
The rivers were
fire and the fish
rocks of ice.
A beast by my side
through hellfire.
Her eyes were marbles.
Her flesh cracked glass.
Her hands were iseicles.
Ripped tendons looking like
dreads hanging from her
head.

But this is only how she
looked in Neverland.
In my geometry class
you never would of guessed
she bent time around her
fingers, squished it into liquid,
painted her nails with it.

Everything is liquid with
her.
She could turn you into
fine wine or a **** stain
on the pants of a scared
kindergartner.

Walking into her house
the walls are mallible
black fur.
They'll nick your change
out of your pockets.
One time it ******
her dad into it.
She said he hasn't
emerged in 5 days.
"He's changed." She says.
"He said it's a way
to Neverland but, mom
says he comes home smelling
like Narnia." She whispered.

They had eyes. The walls.
I could hear them
churning. Black liquid that
gurgled and popped like
an exploding guinea pig
in the microwave.
The fur moved like legs
on a centipede.

Everything got mixed
up and colors stopped looking
the same.

I stayed over at her
house one night,
and I swear to
God faries came.

They called my
beast a pirate.
Said she's been
off duty too
long.
They thought I
was asleep.
In the morning
we walked out
her door and we
fell into the sky.
We fell through
time.
The world became
white and black.

We landed in the
ocean, emerging
through the sand.
She became a
new kind of being.
Her eyes were 8-*****.
Hair, blue fire,
and her skin was
moving black smoke.

She said I looked like
something she could
get addicted to.

One night I found
my hand melted in
her hair,
my hip bones
became Lego pieces stuck
to hers.
Fingers mashed in
places they couldn't
be seen.
Her eyes kept answering
my question of "should
I keep going" with
"**** yes". Her mouth
stretched smoke that
you could lose your mind
in.
Her body a maze
that I couldn't wait
to figure out.
We grew gills
and kept
breathing each other
in.

She said it was
a solstice one night
as we got lost in
seaweed.
I asked her what
that meant.
Before I knew
it, the ocean
****** us up
and the sky
spit us out and
we fell with the
rain. We were hail
being delivered with
drumrolling thunder
and lightning.

We didn't return
to "Earthly" beings.
We stayed in the
flooded streets, gills
still only needing
the other.

She said
she had to return
to Neverland,
but she wasn't sure
if I could go.

We'd find out soon
enough.
Just how,
do we get there?
She pointed to a sky
scraper.
Her see through
fingers found my skin.
She said my eyes looked
like black holes, my skin
had the milkyway trapped
beneath it.

Hopping from rain drop
to rain drop we got to
the top of that building.

We had to wait until
sunrise.
She told me the grass
is smooth like
the seaweed where
we're going.

That my blood would
look like northern
lights.
My mundane mind
wouldn't exist, I
wouldn't feel dead
anymore.
She said we'd be like
Bonnie and Clyde.

When the sun peeked
at our side of the earth
she told me
I might not pass through.
She said that might
be her case too.

She said we'd find Neverland
if we jumped off of that
building.
But all we found was our
bones infused in the concrete.

I've been to Neverland and Back.
The clouds so cold and grey
That I am feeling till this day
My hope and sanity to crack.

I've been to Neverland and Back.
A mirror suited me the doorway finest,
The buttler, man of awful kindness,
Showed me the sought-for track.

I've been to Neverland and Back.
The ruins of what've never ment to be,
Dead forest where falls no seed
And air filled so thick with slack.

I've been to Neverland and Back.
The place's a trap for the poor souls,
Transcendence with a name Lost-Hope,
It's fairy masters' souls are black.

They* drove me across the country,
from the busy city where we departed
to intimate villages where they recessed,
and spent a star filled, moonlit night
singing songs,
their bodies casting long, wavy shadows
from campfires they huddled around.

Just as I got too cold and my wheels
couldn't turn anymore
did they *finally turn the spark plugs,
revving and igniting my despair and sensitivity
producing heat.

Sometimes they pushed
until I shoved
and scraped my rubber
on asphalt,
on rocks,
on sand,
on boulders big and small,
and I hit a flat-line;
the air I could hold in
no longer.

They rode me into a forest
whose undergrowth was as thick
as a bears' fur during the winter,
and redwood that spanned the horizon
you thought it could pat the constellations.
A forest teeming with life that
one would react like Wendy from Peter Pan--
never wanting to leave Neverland.
And I could see it in their
soft faces and squinting eyes,
bright and lit up with joy,
every detail apparent
as if I burst my headlights into high-beam,
directly on them.

It was there I ran out
of gas and my engines
parched for oil,
from the endless adventure
that was exhilarating and memorable.
One could, as a result,
easily forget responsibilities.

There was no service or refill station nearby,
so I was abandoned where I parked,
flat tires, rusty hood, broken chassis,
dilapidated suspension.

I've proved my worth
from when I was brought in
and over time
it wasn't enough.

*Only repairing, never maintaining.

I just want to write one more,
      before I become an adult again.

I am an old soul
with an open heart
to love like that of a child
It is never really hard

Anyway
We're all but children
Trying to sort chaos
In these adult forms

We're just stuck
In the land of not Neverland.

9 to 5 menial jobs
Whether in the night or day
We take whatever luck
That comes in our way

Life is a circus
We ******* know it
Like an elephant in the pedestal
They beat us to it

Your chest houses a lodestone treasure
It strongly attracts
The every atom in my body
That's the least I can measure

We have an affinity
This is some sort of attraction
You
A darling boy
and I am
Just a girl

Let's get out of this world
Together let's fly away
Be my Peter Pan
I'll be your Wendy

Never Neverland is the place where dreams come true
Where you don’t have to be serious, don’t have to grow up
Where Peter is the one to follow and ensures that the everlasting imagination is forever
You can run around in your underwear and no one would notice,
Go get worms by the fireside and tell them to come play
Astronauts, doctors, photographers are all dreams reachable
In Never Neverland you are safe from teenagers torment
Or weight weighing you down, every time you count the calories of a *******
Never Neverland is a place of wonder, a place of intrigue
And where memories don’t fade, everything is everything
And everyone is part of some huge inner circle
Giggling and building forts

He calls himself Peter Pan and he's looking for a new Neverland.
I feel him watching me thinking that I can't see.
But the shadow that he can never quite catch always winks at me when he leaves.

I turn to sneak a peak but I always find he's already looking at me.
I wonder how one can be young for eternity.
Wouldn't it get rather lonely?

I saw him again and he finally said "hello."
It was timid and shy but on the inside he's wild.
I couldn't help myself from my toothy smile.
There was nothing to say but "It took you a while."

We are going strong Peter and I.
In my ear he'll whisper sweet nothings and desire.
I'll just smile and kiss his pink lips.
Because what's left to be desired when you live eternally fighting pirate ships.

Take me to neverland.**
I've spent my entire
life dreaming of neverland.
All you need is faith, trust
and a little bit of pixie dust.
I'll think of a mermaid lagoon,
underneath a magical moon...
If you'll be my star.
I can be you lost boy,
your last chance,
your "everything- better plan.''
Somewhere in neverland.
So come with me to neverland,
where dreams are born
and time is never planned.

And I will make sure that if anything were to happen,
It would do little to affect you.

It's not everyday
You find a goose that lays eggs
With speckled jewels and golden flakes

The world is full of incongruity
And there's no doubt about the certainty
That something bad may happen,
And we don't want that, do we?

So listen carefully.


The world is a giant carboniferous spicule
Hanging in a nest of hydroxic gas and particulae
Spinning within the gaps of a blackened dome
Of limitless space and out of control
There is no telling what way it will go
There is no prediction that has fortold
Any number of moments in this tumbling slumber
Between the darkest hell and the further horizon

I so deftly advise you with all certification
To please place your bets and fly by echolocation
Your eyes will mislead, your ears will displease
And there is no way we can refund divine warranties

This machinery
has a half life of quarks
And energies that vibrate into other orbits
Trajectories
Retaining the spin and informative piece
Of that golden goose let loose amongst the canopy
Of dark,
off into neverland, straight on
Till new morning,
Beyond the stars

So please good sir don't migrate away from me
I have so much to give and such pain I have seen

Those that fatten their goose with **** till it quacks,
Those ravenous souls who ate their gift for a snack,
And when life finally cuts them down to their last,
They will howl and yowl and pray that goose back.

This is a game,
Have a good little laugh
Don't waste your time or your money
On a daffy Aflack

Policy that keeps you policed to the earth,
No way to fly,
Stuck in the dirt.
That is no way to live in the dream,
That is no way to let death trickle in

So please, pretty please, make sure you have coverages
And a couple extra dollars in the pocket of those jeans
Wander freely, you great big atomic bomb, you.
Do catastrophic damages and I'll pay your dues.

Ride the road coast to coast,
Fly a bird 'round the world,
Take a truck till you're home,
Find a love you can trust.
Find a place where your egg
And your legs seek nowhere else
Lay down those roots,
It's Eden or bust.

I think I have Peter Pan syndrome
Because I refuse to grow up

The difference is
I don't have a choice

Because Neverland is a place in storybooks
"The second star to the right and straight on till morning!"

But oh, how badly I still wish
to escape
to
**Neverland.

Never Neverland is the place where dreams come true
Where you don’t have to be serious, don’t have to grow up
Where Peter is the one to follow and ensures that the everlasting imagination is forever
You can run around in your underwear and no one would notice,
Go get worms by the fireside and tell them to come play
Astronauts, doctors, photographers are all dreams reachable
In Never Neverland you are safe from teenagers torment
Or weight weighing you down, every time you count the calories of a *******
Never Neverland is a place of wonder, a place of intrigue
And where memories don’t fade, everything is everything
And everyone is part of some huge inner circle
Giggling and building forts

The countries with the largest ***** ***** length are:
Ecuador - 17.61 cm (6.93 inches)
Cameroon - 16.67 cm (6.56 inches)
Bolivia - 16.51 cm (6.5 inches)
Sudan - 16.47 cm (6.48 inches)
Haiti - 16.01 cm (6.3 inches)
Senegal - 15.89 cm (6.26 inches)
Gambia - 15.88 cm (6.25 inches)
Netherlands - 15.87 cm (6.25 inches)
Cuba - 15.87 cm (6.25 inches)
Zambia - 15.78 cm (6.21 inches)

The countries with the smallest ***** ***** length are:
Cambodia - 10.04 cm (3.95 inches)
Burma - 10.70 cm (4.21 inches)
Taiwan - 10.78 cm (4.24 inches)
Philippines - 10.85 cm (4.27 inches)
Sri Lanka - 10.89 cm (4.29 inches)
Hong Kong - 11.19 cm (4.41 inches)
Bangladesh - 11.20 cm (4.41 inches)
Thailand - 11.45 cm (4.51 inches)
Vietnam - 11.47 cm (4.52 inches)
Malaysia - 11.49 cm (4.52 inches)
~
Scientists claim that the size of the ***** does not matter, as long as the job gets done. But those scientists are probably Cambodian. If you liked my last list of the top 10 countries with the biggest *****’s, then you’ll love the list of the top 10 countries with the smallest *****’s. SO bring out the magnifying glass and tweezers, and let’s have ourselves a closer look.
~
Top 10 Countries With The Smallest penîses In The World or unhung hero's 

10. Japan
Researchers found out that the birthrate in Japan is so low, that adult diapers are sold more than baby diapers. The Japanese are packing a whopping 4.30 inches of sausage, I guess, if you can’t reach, you can’t reach, Sashimi anyone?

9. Sri Lankan men very well represent the size of their tiny little country., and their tiny little rooster. With an average size of 4.30 inches.

8. China
We have reason to believe that the Chinese were gifted with a clever mind, and cursed with a small *****, with an average ***** size of 4.29 inches, now we know why Bruce Lee was always so mad.

7. Philippines
Manny Pacquiao has been under the suspicion of using steroids over the years, and if that’s true, then his **** could very well be inverted by now. Cause the Philippines has an average size of 4.21 inches, now that’s a pretty small **** Pac man.

6. Taiwan
Taiwan’s home of lady boys and Alexander ****. But they need some more pay weight gee (Peh-oe-ji) in their pants with a ridiculous average ***** size of 4.20 inches. Women of Taiwan, I feel for you, but it’s okay, just book a ticket to congo.

5. Myanmar
As beautiful as it is, Myanmar, formerly known as Burma, is famous for their two kind of nuts. Betel nuts, and their little hanging nuts, with an average size of 4.19 inches.

4. India
The country who proudly shared its Yoga spirituality **** to the world, never shared the fact that Indian Men have a teensy weensy dickie, with an average size of 4.03 inches. Well we now know the truth. Namaste!

3. Thailand
home to the world’s largest gold Buddha, the largest crocodile farm, the largest restaurant, the longest suspension bridge, and the tallest hotel, I guess they’re trying to compensate for their national average of 4 inches in the ***** department.

2. Cambodia
50 % of the Cambodian population is under the age of 15. No wonder the average ***** size of Cambodian Men is just 3.95 inches. I’m surprised that Neverland ranch wasn’t built there. #RIP the King of *****

1. South Korea
You may have heard their fantastic K-pop, and you may be impressed with their Economical, financial and Military Growth, but I guarantee that you will never see South Korea the Same way ever again, as they hold the record for the nation with the smallest *****, with an average size of 3.8 inches of pure imagination, and you know North Korea can’t be much better, maybe that’s why they’re so secretive.
~

Hi Doctor.
I was wondering about the depth of the ******. I've read statistics that say that the average ****** is only 3 to 4 inches deep. This seems way too small to me, since the average ***** is considerably longer than that. Wouldn't that mean that most penises would crash into the ****** repeatedly during *******? Since this obviously doesn't happen, my question is this: does the ****** actually elongate during ******* to accommodate the entire length of the average *****?

Dear Ashley
DONT WORRY!!
Your ***** can be amazingly elastic and accommodating,
and if you're brave enough no matter how big, anything can be a *****.
Christine O’Bam Slam, MD

cellphone to heart, mobile to immobile, electric dead to living

you know that sleep and I are but passing acquaintances,
when it drops in, to heavy my lids, it is through a cracked window slivered, just enough for a Pan boy to grab me and away me to Almost Neverland

when the alarms sound that it’s sleepy time,
(quite like that quiet verse)
no time to delist the “those pre-shluffy to do things,”
cell drop upon my chest, like an open mic,
then the raging observatory tapestry begins!

the cell lies directly above my ventricular chamber,
and communication is live, the brain cutoff switch, well, cutoff

all manner of imps, devils, rejected poems, angels and
Greek gods and some Indian as well, stand in line for to make
free calls via a beating human message call center, utilizing my friends and family verizon plan to register complaints,
close out unfinished biz, or just contact, friends, family or other
mischievous imps or even you, in other time zone worlds

though my brain may not interfere, like the CIA, it records all
conversations and give me a list of new poem titles, notions, stories glories and wrenching heartbreaking heartbreak,
requiring “fleshing out” when I awake from my three fingers
of scotch, glass eye tears drops made me drunk,

damning this transmigration chorus of voices that offer up a treasure of divine humankind’s hopes and travails,
and the occasional call on the divine’s 1-800 confession line,
hear it all, my chewing out by one particular god of mine who does not suffer my criticisms well of his ungodly actions, nope not sweetly and

when else would he dare contact me, except when no edgewise
words of mine can appear to contradict his mealy mouth excuses

did you musty misty mistake  my poems  as the product of
the miracle water wages of my imaginary inspiration,
no, not, from the replaying of your desperate exclamations,
the cancerous shrieks of loss and prickly investiture of the aesthetics of soft whispers and solitary foot treads,
that is where my insanity is bred, and tumbling s-words, sworn

don’t consider it eavesdropping as there is no signed rental agreement, consider this unfair warning, if you should secret use my cellular line, your everything is now ******,
your genetic material is materialistic mine and my poems yours,
this bittersweet sentiment is a measure of our bloods commingling,
your tears and impish silliness, are shiny hidden within mine

somehow I feel compelled to state this unique statistic:

I love you

4:47pm on 3/11

who writes poems like this?
silly old boys with gray hair, standing on one left leg.  but you knew that, right?