Rest Area
Pieta (with Blue Marlin)
Freedom Trinity of Sardines
Nothing Is Ever What It Is
Aluminum Eldorado...
This is not a Blue-Ribbon BlackAngus Hovering Above a Field of Poppies
Synaptic Frost and Fire
Anatidae
Links
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Postcard from Warbler Park
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"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall."
They've cut Him,
N 2
thin pieces of sheet-metal
and pop-riveted Him between twin, corrugated candy canes.
He's a Happy-Evil face in short pants,
viciously bent and dented,
Pierced
by Bullets from small caliber firearms.
Bolted to ornamental iron,
He looms crucified above the entrance to Warbler Park.
Approximately Drunk
from the consumption of 800 Gallons of Cheap Sangria,
I was uncharacteristically moved to loudly pronounce,
"We Stand forever Witness to the Epiphanous Ascension of
Humpty Mother-Fucking Dumpty!"
We had, afterall, Failed to utterly annul Him within the artificial restrictions of his thin Euclidian Plane.
The Travelogue says,
"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!"
Intraneous to these environs:
Spanish matter clings tenuously to cheap faux paneling
The sounds of love, and/or a bludgeoning,
from the room beyond
punctuate our awkward clauses.
As our plaster matador slays the Red Bull with 5 legs,
Television keeps watch on the children down below.
We observe how successfully they've endured their weird underwater world.
They too shall resolve to revolve in thick smogs of rotting carpets, and Lysol.
Enter Spicy Tomato-Girl
Tap-dancing amid Mechanical Birds,
and Plastic Mounted Bass
Every goddamned tap
a tone
like a toy xylophone.
She taps,
and Taps, and TAPS, and
KEEPS
FUCKING
TAPPING
with the best intentions, and the least amount of talent,
Under a Wagonwheel Chandelier.
Outside,
Fiberglass Jets and Swans fly
just beneath the wires.
She collapses headlong into the carpet,
thrown by spasms of another greasy miscarriage.
I'm put off my food and Good Housekeeping for weeks.
But I can still see her faces of pleasure/pain,
remember my confusions,
her blush,
her glistening finish
when
Flung into death-like slumps over vinyl humps in an Avacado Sofa.
I was surely once, "in love," with ...
Sport-fucking her pinkish, sucking gump
But we wandered far from Warbler Park one day, in
separate metalflake bumpercars,
and into far more insidious pretentions,
presumably.
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