For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dijous

Son of Carrie and Iu.







That would be me if I ever wore such a silly hat. I wear the very same underwear though that the little man wears, believe moi.

dilluns

He's too good





Pharmacist Clint Riverol, so affectionate and gentle, such quaintly fine, riddle-unraveling hands too.


The pharmacist Clint
He deals cleanly with everyone;
He’s got on the front of his counter
A set of five push-off battering rams;
They are of obimbricate tapering levels of springy ratcheted steel
That, extended full length, can reach up to more than three yards
All said and told.
The heads of those battering rams are protected
By a cushiony sort of robot foot smoothly incurved.
The nervous patient, demanding, in his peremptory heat,
The insistent relief of the drug,
Is thus kept at a reasonable distance, out of harm’s way.
But when there’s a pregnant lady
Who enters the perfumed shop,
The hard steel five-headed Cerberus, in his avatar of five
Battering rams, keeps quiet,
Or rather even purring, each of the animals or heads,
In their cages,
And, instead, beautifully soft,
Nicely colored,
Pillows appear…
Appear in order to…
To envelope the frail swollen body
Of the delicate lady,
The delicate amorous lady
With the big belly
And the hairy moist cunt.

The pregnant ladies all come willingly
And expectantly
To the ministrations of pharmacist Clint.
What’s more, pharmacist Clint can’t go anywhere,
A bar, a restaurant…
Without being immediately identified by some pregnant lady
Or other
As the true place to repair to,
The very point of peace and pleasure.

Like sodden tibcats they gather around him,
For they know his hands are magical,
His face so gentlemanly reassuring,
And they, the tumid ladies,
Are so envious of each other,
He has to attend them in private,
Retiredly, one by one;
He promises to each that he’ll be present,
Without failure
At the point of delivery,
In time to spare,
And that all procedures will run their delicious way, silkily,
I’m telling you I’ll be there, never you worry, my pet.

His presence at the critical moment
When the tumorous infant exits
Insures always a proper delivery.
He’s so delightful to have at one’s side.

Meanwhile the ladies all crave his attention…
He says to each at her clammy ear:
I’ll be waiting for you,
Come at my surgery office at five,
Or at four,
Or at three…
He’s almost fully employed with pregnant ladies.

Behind the doors of his well-defended counter,
There is the little pasha room
Where he administers his cares.
His clean curative hands work wonders indeed,
And never stray to the naughty points
Unless guided by the hands
Of the eager pregnant lady herself,
Who then experiences
Forthwith bye and bye
The chained melodious orgasms of her life.
Never before or after, the lady shall experience
Pleasures so huge.
Her cunt comes alive,
The fetus itself exults,
The soggy body hovers like a weightless balloon…

Once even,
Pharmacist Clint
Took his own arm and shoved it down his own throat,
He reached his stomach with his clean marvelous hand,
He took firm hold of a cancerous tumor
That was growing there unannounced,
What’s more, and worst: unwelcome,
And tore at it,
And dislodged it
And took it off and out, and threw it into the bassinet
And then he emptied the bassinet
Into the bowl of the commode
And then…
And then he flushed the ugly toothed screaming tumor
Down the drain to fucking hell.

So, he knows what he’s doing,
And every pregnant lady intuits it,
And knows, and wants him
For a partner for the more precious
Instant
Of her life.






















Pharmacist Clint Riverol, so affectionate and gentle, such quaintly fine, riddle-unraveling hands too.








The pharmacist Clint

He deals cleanly with everyone;

He’s got on the front of his counter

A set of five push-off battering rams;

They are of obimbricate tapering levels of springy ratcheted steel

That, extended full length, can reach up to more than three yards

All said and told.

The heads of those battering rams are protected

By a cushiony sort of robot foot smoothly incurved.

The nervous patient, demanding, in his peremptory heat,

The insistent relief of the drug,

Is thus kept at a reasonable distance, out of harm’s way.

But when there’s a pregnant lady

Who enters the perfumed shop,

The hard steel five-headed Cerberus, in his avatar of five

Battering rams, keeps quiet,

Or rather even purring, each of the animals or heads,

In their cages,

And, instead, beautifully soft,

Nicely colored,

Pillows appear

Appear in order to…

To envelope the frail swollen body

Of the delicate lady,

The delicate amorous lady

With the big belly

And the hairy moist cunt.



The pregnant ladies all come willingly

And expectantly

To the ministrations of pharmacist Clint.

What’s more, pharmacist Clint can’t go anywhere,

A bar, a restaurant…

Without being immediately identified by some pregnant lady

Or other

As the true place to repair to,

The very point of peace and pleasure.



Like sodden tibcats they gather around him,

For they know his hands are magical,

His face so gentlemanly reassuring,

And they, the tumid ladies,

Are so envious of each other,

He has to attend them in private,

Retiredly, one by one;

He promises to each that he’ll be present,

Without failure

At the point of delivery,

In time to spare,

And that all procedures will run their delicious way, silkily,

I’m telling you I’ll be there, never you worry, my pet.



His presence at the critical moment

When the tumorous infant exits

Insures always a proper delivery.

He’s so delightful to have at one’s side.



Meanwhile the ladies all crave his attention…

He says to each at her clammy ear:

I’ll be waiting for you,

Come at my surgery office at five,

Or at four,

Or at three…

He’s almost fully employed with pregnant ladies.



Behind the doors of his well-defended counter,

There is the little pasha room

Where he administers his cares.

His clean curative hands work wonders indeed,

And never stray to the naughty points

Unless guided by the hands

Of the eager pregnant lady herself,

Who then experiences

Forthwith bye and bye

The chained melodious orgasms of her life.

Never before or after, the lady shall experience

Pleasures so huge.

Her cunt comes alive,

The fetus itself exults,

The soggy body hovers like a weightless balloon…



Once even,

Pharmacist Clint

Took his own arm and shoved it down his own throat,

He reached his stomach with his clean marvelous hand,

He took firm hold of a cancerous tumor

That was growing there unannounced,

What’s more, and worst: unwelcome,

And tore at it,

And dislodged it

And took it off and out, and threw it into the bassinet

And then he emptied the bassinet

Into the bowl of the commode

And then…

And then he flushed the ugly toothed screaming tumor

Down the drain to fucking hell.



So, he knows what he’s doing,

And every pregnant lady intuits it,

And knows, and wants him

For a partner for the more precious

Instant

Of her life.










divendres

Cat Alone - 1 -









April 23









After the third leap my momentum got whittled down to sort of a friable pencil tippy tip. Unsharpened, uptight, writhing and in toil, an acrobat who mislays his grasp, and his foothold, so help me, goes nowhere, and his entrenched buoyancy gets erased in a single breath, and the altitude to be above all properly held becomes a bruising oxymoron as he undergoes the ultimate transformation and soon is gravy on the mosaic underneath, is bilge on the amber mosaic underneath, snorting and giddy I came to a stop before the maze itself stopped me dead in my tracks.



The sky was inhabited by a thick mass of refulgent octopi; the earth with a mange or a hives of tooting platypi. Strewn among the halt, the blind, the ugly, the bonkers, and the prosthetically-ossified veterans, the truculent war-mongering veterans, now I would, so help me, become another rioting nobody, if the modern episteme held true and, not aided now by the meagerness still of my purse resurgent, could I escape the festering dungeon of the helpless aggressors never thwarted in their thirst after an all-out warfare against any enemy at all that arose in front of their leprous noses by default.



Who wields wealth, I ruminated in my fall over the thoroughly bespattered field, builds somehow a filter through which neither the shoddy gripes nor the mud slinging nor the griefs nor the poignant poniards cross.



Or does it? So help me, I now bore in mind the cries of horrendous dolor as the rich misplace a dime or as the beautiful find a scirrhus in their well-molded foundation, ah, and the unabashed qualms when success is remiss for the uniformed stickler...!



On behalf of all my disgusting coconspirators I laughed in the mire – I had hype for rent, I said – “isn’t my gladness contagious, isn’t the sky as the earth, mosaics, baby, of detritus various, variegated?” So rejoice, and so on.



But, of course, who would follow the lead of a failure? I’ll add for good measure egregious. An egregious failure, ok.



I crouched alone, licking my wounds. So help me, at this instant a woman, relatively unscathed, was by my idle eyes seen. Not everything was lost. Not by a long shot, if you know what I mean.





Never so well

Never so well
nyac!

Inosculated

Inosculated
anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

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

stats: