Monday, April 24, 2017

Peter Pan and Tinker Bell in Hell

“And so, one must soon understand to take, if not
on faith,” says Peter Pan the Grown-Up Man,” then
on innumerable instances of qualitative evidence, that
there are realms of what, through other more subjectively,
sophisticatedly attuned and therefore profitably sensitive
recalibration, do turn out to be discernments which amount
to practicable crucial information on ephemera which with
a subtle but important weight bear down upon what to dislike
or like – data, if you’d rather – which emphatically will drive

the killing spike into the heart of that great blight of fake
vampiric smarts within whose scope assessments of more
esoterically aesthetic testaments and objects, casts of mind,
dimensional approaches among other traits, effects
and contributions (à la carte) which broach those questions
only recognized inside the wide and deep precincts of what
one calls ‘the arts’ – dreamed-of or materially realized –
whose sizes, sighs and cries not only can’t be registered
or understood but sensed at all in their entirety or parts.”

(A scent like tiny coalescing farts
balloons into the room,
as light as Tinker Bell once was,
but with a nasty buzz.)

“What’s that smell?”
asks Tinker Bell

(who, now heavy with the weight
of twenty-seven faerie ladies,
hadn’t yet divined they
were in Hades):

“Smells like Hell.”


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