For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dijous

Cat Alone - 8 -






April 30















Daisy died of an unyielding humidity in her cunt – and
he’s from a family of clowns – so he’s been summoned to her burial, to
entertain the bored tots, all those sillies: Daisy’s friends, neighbors,
classmates...



Unfortunately the road is all glazed with ice and the ragamuffin urchins
have slapped a few flat pieces of wood or metal together to make
themselves skis and toboggans, and he and his car, as he passes by a
very slow car with a pretty girl inside, almost crushes one of the street
rascals as he comes hurtling against his vehicle... “Another turd in
the maelstrom... Eminence of isle the cynosure of my eyes...
”, he’s
thinking, as, out of true, he tries to regain the rut. His car, misshapen
bostryx, shrunken, with a dehorned castrated beraved clown inside...
Skidding toward a wall. Image out of hell. Going to crush me a few
of those addled-brained infants one’s supposed to come mourn, or
rather un-mourn...
Let’s not begrudge a few of my choice formulae
whose shrewd gist... He misses them by a hair. “He’s the fucking devil
in the murdering car!” – shouts a boy that mistook the devil for a
clown.



As he climbs down at the side door of the mansion, all the little girls
follow him in a delighted scream – he’s fed up with girls – avoids them
like a fungus...



–Daisy’s in heaven (he tells them) – her plastic jewelry studs the void as
the whispers of the lambent slugs stud the mist of paradise. Tears
petrified into diamonds. At one of her heels hangs a musty pedometer.
From now on, it always shall mark zero as she walks with the funky
walk of all the other saved reptiles over the blinking quicklime that is
the floor of heaven
. The miasma of their dust erase the pimples
and the orifices of their bodies, the smooth bodies of the blessed, so
that their skins are perfect and unbroken. Scarlet scintillating
pickaninnies linger, naked, in their jungle reveries that are forbiddingly
unctuous – as dull sketches a twerp might dream. All girls (and little
compliant slave boys) go to heaven – that’s a given, my pretties. With
what largesse the facilities and commodities there above are strewn as
from cornucopia or horns of plenty from whence the ignorant toys and
the forepardoned sweet sins unscathingly flow...



–I’m the clown at the pearly gates. Name’s K. Fotrem. My
motto: Acceptance and nonjudgement. My lifestyle: Contentment with
the given game, whatever its cards. My recommendation: No protests
against the fates. My coda: Continue enraptured till the end.



He was given a few coins. “In god we shit,” it said – obverse or adverse
– now it escapes my mind.







All’s bound to burst, venters, breasts, orchards, fruits, crania,
planets, eggs; everything enclosed, self-contained, shall simultaneously
become a crater; hearts will explode, and the universe. I was
walking over the well-appointed, nicely parceled, little vegetable
gardens, allotted to the folks at the crest of the hills; I was walking
gingerly, taking care not to tread over the pernickety squares where the
vegetables grew
, but only at the narrow margins, almost on my
toes, even if I also knew that all was bound to burst in another second or
two. Stalking over patches of well cared-for dirt, avoiding for the life of
me to inconvenience any growing verdure... The horticulturists
somehow watchful that you didn’t stray over their well dispensed
apportionments, even if they knew that everything was about to burst –
and worse, and most horrifically, that spoiled-rotten ungrateful earth
itself.



We go raw, we bivouac in forests and at the rivers’ shores. A last taste at
burgeoning nature... Let’s give each other tiny gifts of well wishes, let
the little cards say niceties of that tone: “May your bursting be brief
and beautiful as a tomato’s...
” – for instance. Or: “An egg won’t
ever explode as splendidly as your head
.”



Milks boil over, the seas, the sewers, the sobs, the raptures, the cages of
chests, suddenly ruptured, are dismantled in bars or ribs that fly
asunder as arrows from a blasted quiver.



Pregnancies blow up, ah, and my veins: damned
aneurysm!






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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