For Every Tib and Tom Cat


hanging wormy pelt

can’t bark, can’t bark

here, projected, is my body…

what a roaring scent,

what a roaring scent it lets fly…!

is dead…,

is dead and rotting…

in its murkiness,

a sparkling maggot

scoffs at my swift


calls me a rustic,

a no class churl,

no finesse whatever

in the liquefying arts;

such a crying, such a bore,

such a boor, such a crying

inability to render oneself,

or at least to render

graciously oneself

back to the clean humus,

such as one always

certainly should…

and now in her smugness,

she shrieks…

a corpse beetle

lands in her field.

the sparkling maggot

bristles most aggrieved.

fetid quills are crossed,

the fierce adversaries

disregard the juicy meal

of my body…

rotting fast.

lugubrious, the victor

the vanquished devours

as any mother would

her gutsy abortion.

as the sparkling beetle

now flies away,

my body, a derelict,

a sinking deserted wreck,

melts with…,

melts with the sea.

the sea, a juicy…,

a juicy meal

from a bigger corpse yet.

the sea harmonious,

the warring…,

the warring oceans cacophonous,

the blue, the blue…



About hats severally worn by the born


these are the hats I wear

the hats people forget

at my side

whenever I’m sitting

at the brinks

of abrupt


these are the hats

nipped and scratched

often too deeply

just maybe as the people

who wore them

and gave them up.

those are the exhausted

supernumerary hats

I find after the people

who forgot them behind

suddenly up and decided

to jump

or else

step leisurely

into the ravine.

those are the hats I wear

as unwearable maybe

as the people

who left them behind

people who up and marched

with a will toward the abyss.

those are the hats of people

some of whom were allowed

to descend flight by rough

and jagged and craggy flight

to their uppermost bliss

while others were forbidden

the luxury

and had to leave behind

(with their derelict hats)

those excess years

and riches and felicities

and their droves of children

in a spasm.

those are the hats I wear

as those that wore them

up and disappeared

down the chasms

and forgot them

near where in his secluded niche

the surrogate wearer waits

and waits…

as the master winds

blow up the world

as the master

blower blows up

a crude bottle

where the scene

could be

before shattering



before my stunned eyes

a hat blew in the storm

I was disoriented

strange city

heavy rowdy traffic

blinding gaudy lights

I had been eating grapes

with the friendly inhabiters

of a crumbling house

deep pools of rain

where the rats wallowed

but now we needed bread

to eat with the remaining grapes

and I was so disoriented

emerging into the busy artery

I didn’t know where to turn

the smells were injurious

the lights hurtful

the dislodged hats blew around

and about

whirlpools of incongruous objects

in eddies of splintering hats

the crazed cars

rammed down dogs

and pigeons

and tykes

and left those unspeakable messes


so that new cars rapidly

passed above

and with a vengeance

trying to obliterate the hideous


the revolting outrage

I was utterly disoriented

the offensive smells

the garish neons

the clattering stabbing hum

I submerged myself back


and when even without a puny loaf


I reached again the dilapidated house

new lodgers were busy about

and worst

putting in new shiny appliances


the rude bullying servicemen

who chased me away

like another grubby


putrefying hat.

Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

La meva foto
C.R. Morell his paltry efforts,