Saturday, September 27, 2003

Humpty Dumpty.

Yes, dear friend. He sat on a wall.

The wall that is life. The bastille of our souls. The stones that house the weave of life. Like grapes in Tuscany, it is the sweet elixir that is mortality


He had a great fall. Into the cesspool of natural expenditures. He must get up. Does he get up? Could he get up? But alas, hope is dead. Hope does not save him. Hope merely prolongs his suffering.

He lays flat. His degenerate body, previously rotund in gaeity, now lays shattered ... blowing into the wind. Death is everything. Everything is nothing. Nothing is empty. Empty is full. Full is strawberry jam ... and jam is good. I mean, god. And god is sticky ... just like that hell-for-the-thighs puddle of cholesterol.

All the king's horses. Galloping into salvation. Their bodies bridled by the king's men. Pawns. Lunatic lackeys. They believe it is in their power to put ... yes, put ... that dreary embryotic simmering mass, together again.

They fight their nature. They leave behind reason. They anticipate failure ... but their power, too green.

But they couldn't. They can't. It is not in them to do so.

Humpty Dumpty was fated to fall. Humpty Dumpty came in terms with the earth's murderous agenda.

They tried some more. But no enchilada. Not even the spicy kind.

He simply evaporated into the essence of Descartes. Thinking, therefore, being. He just is, not what his senses tell him.

Desperately, they cried. Onwards! More tape! More glue! More piss in his shoe (heh heh, just for kicks).

But they couldn't.

The salty sting of flowing tears migrated into the sky.

The funeral knell cracked a knowing sigh. This is what is. It cannot be otherwise.

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