"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall."
The Tribe, they've cut Him. Into Thin sheets of sheet-metal Pop-riveted between twin, corrugated Candy Canes.
He's now only and forever a Happy-Evil face in short pants;
Viciously bent and dented, pock-marked and pitifully pierced by munitions from small caliber firearms.
I quickly surmise the signature work of the Godless Agents of ISIS.
Bolted now brutally to ornamental iron
the Fair Dumpty looms highly (somewhat overly) crucified above the entrance to our fair Warbler Park.
Where we spent another lost weekend.
Only approximately eloquent from the consumption of mucho cheapo Sangria,
I was uncharacteristically moved, that blessed day, to eloquently speak in cursive the following impromptu purplish prose:
"Friends. Is this thing on? Check. Check. 2,3. Friends! We. Here. Today. Stand together, as friends, as converts, as members of spontaneous cults, as filthy as pigeons from head to toe, in this most Sacred Place.
Can I get some love today?!"
Crowd responds favorably. I continue, "Friends! Forever may we... wave...as wholesome as Barbie's and Malibu Ken's; solemn witnesses to this Epiphanous Ascension of Humpty. Fucking. Dumpty! Can I get an Amen?!"
It was, indeed, a sentiment bravely and tearfully shared by all present that day and met with exaggerated enthusiasm from the same people who are always trying to kiss my ass for something.
We had, after all, all of us, failed to utterly annul Him within the Artificial restrictions of his thin Euclidean Plane.
But the complimentary Travelogue says, quote
"Only Fools seduced by the Fusion of Hazard and Pathos Venture Here,
in search of something to Believe, something to Forget,
something other than REALITY to take Effect.
PARADISE CAN BE YOURS!
TRY OUR PEANUT BUTTER LOGS!"
Intravenous however to these sleazy environs, however, we take note the following:
Spanish matter clings tenuously to cheap faux paneling
Behind which sounds of Love, and/or a bludgeoning
Punctuate our frequently awkward clauses.
As the plaster Matador on display slays the Red Bull with 5 legs,
Television keeps watch on her children down below.
We observe how successfully they've endured their weird underwater world.
They too shall someday resolve to revolve forever in thick smogs of rotting carpets, paper thin walls and Lysol.
They too will perhaps someday pay $20 to Japanese twins to play ping pong with their vaginas on your coffee table.
Enter Spicy Tomato-Girl
Tap-dancing amid Mechanical Birds,
and Plastic Mounted Bass
Every goddamned tap
like a broken toy xylophone.
and Taps, and TAPS, and
with the best intentions and least amount of talent,
Under a Wagonwheel Chandelier.
Fiberglass Jets and Swans fly just beneath the wires.
She collapses headlong, again, into the carpet, thrown by spasms of another greasy miscarriage.
I'm put off food and Good Housekeeping for weeks.
Yet I still remember her faces of pleasure & pain; still remember my confusions;
her blush, her glistening finish
flung into death-like slumps over vinyl humps in that Avacado Sofa.
I was surely "in love" with her once...
Sport-fucking her pinkish, sucking gump.
But we wandered far from Warbler Park one day, in separate Metalflake Bumpercars,
into far more insidious pretensions, presumably.