For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dijous

his wanting last stands
















this the brothel had: an orchard
















the brothel had an orchard,

the tarnished dusk saw the tarts

agape upon my casket.



i was rotting inside, I know;

the casket swathed in murky dusk,

on stilts of a sort,

in the middle of a clearing

in the brothel’s ordinary orchard;

on stilts of a sort, as a wart,

a tough bristly wart,

with me, the body, a nauseating

lump dumped inside.



the irreverent bitches

razzed the irksome squirt,

buck naked, no shoes.



“–even in his last box

his wanting last stands;

here he glibly struts, stationary

though, with his humble straw

erect, bridging the domains, linking

the realms of death and life.”



“–we must burn this, sisters,

a bonfire should be afoot, is already on the cards;

then the ashes and the mishmash

shall help the orchard’s chances.”



nobody meanwhile had seen the appearance

as a conundrum of any sort.



the worthless bastard,

erst so tight with his purse,

desiring now perhaps to be honored

by his “family,” the last rites performed

by the priestesses, the attentions of whom

he had profusely craved

every other crummy day of the week;

dying to sink his crooked little straw

into the sacred fountains of another cunt,

squeezing out a wad

that never amounted to spit,

then quelling his thirst at the current fountain,

sinking his nose in the asshole of the whore,

warming his hands at the lambent stove,

clinging to his scant wealth

as a sick skunk to his stink clung,

a theft of which would have betrayed

his weakness, and imperiled

his chances of ever again drinking

at the priestesses’ sacred fountains

of tomorrow and who knows how many

other days.



now he is dead,

waiting for the fire.



bleak wart on the orchard, ignite!

throw up your flames!

withdrawn no longer in the rotting shell

of your disgusting flesh!



throats smothered by the smoke...

are they suppressing a sob, a growl...?

have some whores felt left in the lurch...?

i doubt it, though it is a fact that

i hear some of them singing encomia to the bastard;

they don’t any longer nurse the old aggravations;

looks like all has been condoned,

paid with the corpse;

they are now as the vestals in communion

grieving and mourning for the fallen

inchoate project of a hero.



their lengthy shadows –

phantasmagoric

whimsical

witchy

priapic

sycophantic

carnivorous –

wild dancing maenads of an olden bacchanal –

their shadows thrown all twisted up on the walls

that surround the orchard of the brothel

closed for once.



something snapped

and i knew i shouldn’t be that exposed.



the world came crumbling down –

an overwhelming sound as of wolves

baying at my ears, and on my face

the unbearable breath of a

terrifyingly opened furnace.



had they stopped singing,

was the ceremony over...?



tell me: do i already

belong...?












Never so well

Never so well
nyac!

Inosculated

Inosculated
anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

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

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