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…

Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

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