For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dissabte

20. such ugly remains








Dancing on the sward










From the aging mansion where the youngsters are wont to commit

The most horrific suicides – they

Electrocute themselves high in spiky towers

They hang themselves with chains at the end of which wolf traps snap

They disembowel themselves with kitchen knives

They sedulously maim and amputate themselves

They go at it always with a keen intent

And succeed in making such messes of their own corpses

That picking them up it seems – I’m told

It seems to be really disgusting.



From the crumbling sumptuous melancholic mansion

Where awed shamble the doomed

The manic fervidly set their complicated self-killing contraptions

The degenerate mechanically ensnare their own wasted bodies

It’s good to be just the gardener

Always outside – (never been in

Who’d be so crazy to want to?)

Always semi-busy and about trimming the paths

Always married to the deep green of the plants

And the deep blue of the sea that peeps up where the sward

And the turf gently slope

It’s good to be just the gardener

Occasionally musing at the pink rain while shacking

In my shack at the other end of the huge garden

My holy sylvan abode

And when the old woman of the house

Ancient survivor in the old rich mansion

Comes out to dance a few steps of a minuet on the vast lawn

It is good to be the gardener who reaches out his hand for she to hold

During her simple pirouette

Alas always before yet again she is summoned in front of another ghastly

Suicide

Last of the bloody brood already – not many more left

Let’s hope

House without youngsters house without angst.








divendres

19. trouble at the cage









Wrong passport







First I hate crowds

Second I hate lines

Third I hate bureaucrats

Trite trolls ensconced in their clotted quonset cabins.



Now the times presses

It is becoming too late

The runty fairy takes my passport

I make a few remarks

Notice that I could’ve move ahead with the notables

And the other shitty v.i.p.’s

But I’m one with the people..
.
Hate prerogatives and privileges you know
...

Must be mightily pissed off by now the damned spook

Too tired with stamps labels countermarks that kind of garbage

Nonetheless he fucking takes his time with my passport

Don’t he.



When the syrupy hours elapse my head collapses on the counter

I take a few exhausted winks

The mob thins

The din subsides

Somebody else – a lowly woman – elbows me

Hands me the passport He had not enough

Space (leaves) (pages) to affix his afflux of notes


What...?

My passport all smeared with multicolored provisos

And mainly with insults innuendoes questionings

Plain frontal assaults regarding the state of my sanity:

I’m not only crazy I’m also dangerous

I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere for a span

Of more than a couple

Of closely watched days – and at the least slip I should be committed


I’m frothing with anger

If I’m so crazy mayhap I’ve got a license to kill the turdy

Son of a bitch...

Only that he’s out to lunch.



I’m pacing outside at a loss now

I’m sizzling inside

I’ve got to destroy that fucking state (state of things) dares deny

My rights and moreover officially makes a walking disaster

Out of me.



I’m boiling mad

Roaming without a clue

Even bathed in the afternoon zephyr

I’ve been rumminating along that narrow street

A tub

A tub precariously balanced at the edge of the curb

Placed to be picked up by the garbage people soon due

Gets a furious rear kick out of me

It comes loose

It rolls down gathering speed

It will crash into traffic

It will cause chaos and mayhem at the crossroads

Against which the ally abuts

That’s why I’m running down some handy side street

I see the sea at its end

A marina where in floppy idleness the well-to-do

Use up their last one hundred sixty-two days allotted

To live.



How am I to mix unnoticed among them?

No sweat

First let’s cross the torrent separates me from their tasteless luxury

The torrent skids down along the solid rim

I’m running on.



It’s all sham

Decoration put on

The open sewer goes to the sea

Near the sea it gets canalized it sinks into a culvert

Under the flat pier it seethes

Under the flat pier above which I’m walking nonchalantly

To mingle with my worthless peers.



Am I too conspicuous

Too conspicuously a branded crazy

A patently non-allowable...

Who’s to say?

Can’t I stroll also with a certain flair flaring my nostrils

Lifting my head tilting it so and pinching my lips

And tut-tutting myself

My image on the shop windows

Faking it maybe a mite too much

Not that anything ain’t faking

On the contrary all fakes in a fake setting

It’s all bunk all bogus

All show off...

The dying (and the living) taking place always elsewhere

I’ll melt all right

I’ll melt and wait for the coming smelting

Where I’m bound to fall also in a few

More escapades

At last going in full consent with the current

With the current down down

Another dead smelt borne by the smelting.







dimecres

18. almost caught





Running to catch the last train















Always so hard to get into that last train

The annoying goodbyes the emptinesses the aloneness

The realization of nothingness implied in any broken packet from the past

And then the flight

The climbing of the iron steps full of piles of recent defecations

Over the old ones – and those last over what one might call already the coprolites

Your skill in avoiding the shits

And now the running along the decrepit ones’ sinister street

With all those coquettes of a few old women without teeth

That concomitantly laugh and defecate only lifting a little their wide

Beshitted skirts

And now where would you put the emphasis

Of your slipping soles that add commas of shit or quotation marks

On the text of recent defecations on the gaudy street where the dying strut...?

For you’ve come to the brink of the cliff

And now but fast the big decision

About what to do then about that road that stops or ends abruptly

Whether you should jump for the ledge to the left

Or the ledge to the right

Both ledges so bloody narrow

The drop at the lip of them so steep and deep

Lethal

The ledge at the left looking more worn out and greasy

From the steps and hands of previous passers...

The left it is then...

But the drop is so fierce

Your heart is dangerously faint

Oh and now here you fly down the precipice...

Your death before the last train’s arrival certainly certified...

What a pity

But wait that your hands have managed to grab the railing

Of a balcony belongs to an end shop of a lower rung ledge

Where the people are younger though maybe meaner...

The termagant of a shop owner wants you disengaged

She comes a-poking with her butcher’s knives

She wants you down she wants you dead

Hooligan! – she’s shouting – Damned hooligan!

But the lady customer imprecates in your favor?

Well maybe she does

She’s lifting her arms to heavens and reproving the boss

Telling her to mind the eyes of the hanger-on

Look at his terror look at his outrageous fright the man’s a wreck

And anyway the bump you complain of

The bump at your window it was made from the inside

Not by any outside hooligan but by one of ours it was
...

So the miracle is on

The boss’ heart softens

She turns her back she allows you to climb up the railing

And walk down the gallery to the next floor...

From that flat deserted floor full of rain and ruins

Through the neck looking down toward the lower rung

At your peril you must now traverse

The gangs of younger and younger thugs...

And then the unending useless works

The works impassable

Where the workers look at you with irrepressible hate

And their gigantic machines of raw iron dressed in loose concrete

Would swallow you whole (are they even yearnig to?) with a gulp

So you better turn legal

You better turn into the normal way of access to the station

You better alas try to make it through the worse gang of them all:

The cops – they don’t need any excuse to harass and to murder

They are the fucking law...

How they poke at you with which haughty stupid loathing

How they pretend to look for drugs or who knows which other shit

Inside your gullet with their filthy monkey hands down your choking

Mouth...

Finally a cruel cultivated captain – a nasty fairy

Lets you go forward into the station per se

He recognizes a fellow skeptic

Only that down on his luck

He sees a kin after a fashion a kind of compatriot

One of them with the scarred hopeless disbelieved soul...

The trail trembles becomes white hot

The train is in abeyance sighing like a dragon in the last throes of sleep

You’ll make it yet

You’ll make it

Relax

Relax...








dilluns

17. taut ribbons







Companionship of pullers








We tried to save his life

The boy was sick and in bed

The bed high on the hill

The bed his deathbed if nothing were done

Before to impede it

The bed his carapace of burning brimstone

Of red hot iron

His Nessus’ shirt.



Long ribbons white and red

Were brought down to the road’s rim

So that all that wished to could also pull

And hard.



We tried to save the sick boy’s life

With long ribbons doggedly pulled

By all the stopped automobiles’ drivers

Striving toughly on the road at the foot

Of the hill.



Unfazed disease

Idle effort

All to no avail

Alas

Another instance

Of the ah all so truthful saying

Everything comes to nothing

After the striving
.



Taut ribbons

Totally ineffective

Futile struggle

The sick unmovable

Soon apt pasture for the vultures and the rodents

And such.







dissabte

16. bullet through the intruder's head








Loving the morning










I love to belong into the early dawn circle

Even if only discussing

The earlier fires that ravaged

The small businesses

The big businesses wanted ravaged

In order for them to build on the ravaged

Grounds.



Love to belong among the pestering sobbers

And the blubbering complainers.



Love to belong for a while in the circle of humanity

If only commiserating with those that lost

heir earnings and their little businesses

If only cursing and railing against big business

And the big business thugs

That disguised as arsonist thugs

Burned down the whole row of little businesses.



I love to disengage myself from the depressing circle

Grab a friend

And walk together on the roofs

Munching toasted slices

Of bread.



I love to peer into the two windows

Where my old humorous drawings

Are exposed on the walls

My old humorous drawings

Funnily twisted little guys colored

With colors bright

And sensible nonetheless

.

I love to stand at the door of my house

When the rows burn.



Love to defend my property

And my friend

With a shotgun and a clean shot

Through the intruder’s

Forehead.








divendres

15. parsnip in her narrow beak





All by instinct ruled










Somebody wanted to kill him during his sleep

He had parried the blow with the hot brick

He had said to his wife

One in your family tried last night to blow me with a whack out of the map

By instinct alone I grabbed the hot brick and smashed him

First before he fled
.



Or she fled – she said.



Anyway he must be sporting a nasty bruise

By now on the head

Or the face or the shoulder you know

Please be so kind as to in a discreet manner

Ascertain then who might it be
.



You are too friendly with the woman folk of the household

Commenting too favorably on the color of their dresses

And insinuating how healthy and appetizing their bodies look

The man folk don’t see it with such leniency as you’d hope for

And then there are the jealous hags

They feel spurned and affronted if the praise coming their way

Is deemed to be somewhat of less import than the one their rivals get

Or there are those that reckon that you are coming on too strong

Too aggressively
...



Me? On the contrary no way

Unfailingly too gentle

For instance can never approach the heteroclite spread

Or the blackening pile

Of any suddenly offered bargain

Never dare or care to push away the eager strangers

Vying to get a piece of the shitty loot

Truth is their touch alone repels me excruciatingly
...



Soon the abode was in turmoil

His clothes were always wet

His cushions and his bed always wet

His pillows teemed with untamed oblique quirks

Burned films of horrors past

Soot swerved about from new prickly tiny craters

On ceilings and walls

Enigmatic sounds of fetters heavily drawn

Along narrow passages he surely heard

Filtered through the partitions that grew like mushrooms overnight

Lewd anchorites burgeoned from erst homely nooks

They frowned defiance upon the foreigner

He was heckled as any defective too ugly neophyte would...



He screwed up his courage and readied his suitcases

And started his journey at a break-neck pace

Endless vaults and new alleys appeared in the building

New crannies new stands new shops...



A vertigo was his that blatantly unsettled his wits

His reign he was relinquishing bit by bit

He was a pharaoh doomed

He had embarked in that druid business and now he was alone

His acolytes flagging

His vestals and nymphs swooning hither and thither

The unholy mirth of the enemy closing in...



He scratched and growled

Rent were the slimy curtains

Scruffily sighed the imps

Whoever dares impinge into our realm

They whistled

Anyone who crosses the jinxed causeway in deadly earnest

The lost soul that strode over the unquelled worms of our corpses
...



And so on.


He was worn off

In the throes of despair when he found the door

To heavenly outside.



He fell agroof over the flagstones.



Flabby scared on his soiled duff

No longer personable and smooth

He had been just zapped

By the clammy law.



The residual chaos of himself bemoans

Almost instinctively the unfairness of his luck.



His wife

Still alive

Peers from a garret orifice

She seems to hold a parsnip in her bill.






dijous

14. you bet you animal




The animals you bet









Animals always so busy

Their busyness dizzying.



I told my family I’d only come if carried

But when we arrived at the foot of the scalinata

They left me slumped in my wheelbarrow

Wrapped in my blankets

Not for lack of charity as sundry a tourist must’ve thought

But because they were fed up

With my childish attitude.



I got up to the dismay of the charitable ones

And took the little wheelbarrow where I erst was crammed

And filled it up with clayish mud

The result of last night pouring over the seven hills

Surrounding the city.



I brought the mud into the riverbank

And emptied it there on the scant strand

Then I gave away the quaint wheelbarrow to some ragamuffins

Who were elated with my gift

On the shingle of the shore its wheels rang

And its metallic body boomed.



Next I went to see my friend’s little gipsy dog

And took it for an eventful stroll along the rear

Of the row of the fairgrounds permanent shacks

Fronting the river.



Behind Madam Magician’s gaudy shed

We met a little witchy cat

Boozy and breezy and so cute

With whom my gipsy gray doggy

Both played and slightly fought

In a deep muddy puddle

They wallowed and frolicked

In the end both were dressed in slime.



We went up to a ramshackle badly leaning faucet

And washed away the muck

Luckily it was a warm afternoon.



Now we encountered a makeshift memorial

That had under the cross two tablets

One with solemn easy verses

The other with some cartoons by a skilled hand lovely made

About a soldier who in spite of having had

A quite ordinary youth

Had to go down in battle at such a tender age.



We went back a bit morose into my friend’s shop

He said I didn’t know you had taken the dog

I said You were so busy at the time

And now I went behind the counter

And prepared myself something to eat

For which I even paid

A client came in

He had a thick dog on a leash and on a little string

A painted rodent

I said to him Is that a rodent or a very small dog?

He said A rodent

A fashionable rodent if you please

Its pelt has been shampooed

Barbered and colored

As you see in orange and green

And do you know that I was asked by phone

By so-and-so


(I said I know him!)

To write an article about that type of rodent

And its domesticity for his magazine?


I said He never pays

Does he?


The client said He did though very little

I said This is how he became so rich

Damned impresario

By not paying his flunkies


Didn’t I know!



The animals meanwhile were going hither and thither

The shop was alive with the movement of animals

The shack

The fairgrounds

The earth itself

The universe loved it.




dissabte

13. the roar of stardust









Help from above









Who whispers foul play

Is awfully wrong.



The numbers he ratchets up

The beautiful stranger

At any game

Be it physical or intellectual

At strenuously jumping or sitting in thought!



He amazes the pants out of everyone

Myself not excluded

(Though himself excepted

Sure thing.)



I’m just a coach for little guys

I’m saying to all and sundry

See?

See...?



What a great example

My extraterrestrial

Is!



He stirred

No longer dozed the giant

The roar of stardust

Was clawing back into his

Conscience.



He’ll fight the harder now!

May the public be prepared!

If I’m lying I’m dying

The fear upon the bunch.












dijous

12. dripping cheeks: blenched








Ample umbrellas









Here they were again

The jolly mothers

With the ample flowery skirts

And the wide-opened umbrellas

Flocking

Twittering

Voluptuously splurging at the soon not so crowded

School’s door

Arrived like a perfumed breeze

To pick up every eager and boisterous tyke...



Every happily puddle-churner of a tyke

Besides

The strays.



The strays

Rain drops on their dripping

Cheeks

Blenched.




dimarts

11. all cross the river [one]









All cross the river (1)









Those that walking hug the side of the bridge

They peer from the balustrade

And down there are the waders

The swimmers

There are the bulges of those that drowned.



No parcels or belongings too big are saved

Just little stuff

The big items slowly flow away with the drowned.



On the train that running at the center of the bridge

Crosses the river

The cops are hard at it

They don’t want “nobody that don’t belong

They wield the flat machines

Against which none is ever shielded enough

The machines that ascertain if...

If you then really belong

If you wouldn’t then be a damned stowaway

If you’d be then a passer of forbidden material

And then so on.



Here they come

They scan the blind man

And what is this...?

They snidely ask – (a thick sheaf of smuggled banknotes?)

(It rather looks like)

Those, sirs, must be the observations on the beetles

(Observations, piff!)

But no really

The blind man is an expert on beetles

He’s got them all carefully described

In them tightly packed sheets of rusting paper

He examines them (and damn the stings and acids)

By touch

Smell

Taste

Plus he has all the sounds they ever make down pat

Only missing are the colors

Every bug gray

Utterly gray

And the cops are puzzled

Should we kick him down as the train moves?

Do we ignore him also?

Is there gonna rain another blind man

On the sedulous

River crossers?


There are some rowdy youths

That divert attention

They are combating at twisting one’s limbs

Let those that twist farther without breaking

Be the winners

Ok but less loudly

The cops are against a woman now

Smelling cunt and melting and molting and melding hard

But a harmless joke amongst comrades

(Hey is she infected...?)

What’s this...!

With a sudden strike of his talon

The cop scraps and snatches

A lentil of blood

That was stuck on her body

That woman has lentils of blood!

The cops get busy

Snapping at the lentils of blood

Scrambling like rats on a body that’s dying

The woman’s screaming

And now she is tossed down into the reddening river.



How agreeably though in the beds

The few that cram them

Seeing the combats developing afar

It is all like a movie

The wives touching the legs of the husbands of others

The husbands likewise

(Or widdershins rather)

And the warmth enveloping one

The warmth and the bodies

The windows so golden

In the crepuscular light.






divendres

10. body or luminous arena









Arena of creation the body










The body is a round enclosed house

That consists of a vast core

And a thin outer layer inside the rind.



The body as a round house includes

Under the skin an outer circle

(A single long narrow corridor

That lit only by dim lights

Runs around the core.)



On the upper rungs of some portable steps

The director of the movie of your lives

Imparts instructions

To the lot of them actors that ever touched

Or approached you.



Everyone listens with a certain nonchalance

Until alas the cops irrupt

And all of you and your (the authors’) directors flee

Pell-mell helter-skelter.



The essential ones (the brightest indeed)

Save themselves coming in.



Inside the core a circus

A vast school of art

A vast and luminous and colorful arena of creation.



All hues and tints and implements

(Pencils of flesh of gorgeous girths)

Are there for the taking by the artists

Whose objects shall shine

Summoned from the hallowed halls of

Commensurate feedback.



Joyfully one wallows in the sand

Of the circus where the footprints

Of the moving peoples and the moving cattle

Won’t ever be ascertained

By the cowered police

For the entrance and the exit into the arena

For every intimate flock

Is always unforeseeable and anyway

The cops have always been properly delayed

And misdirected

While the flocks disappear and melt into the crowd.



The arrival of the cops

Is always greeted with amused jeering

Get thee back into the sewer!

The more lenient shout

Craven rats riddled with vermin!

Slimy lice!

While the arduous dramatists

Are apt never niggardly in their histrionics

Even to send the worthless trespassers’ way

Torn tussocks of their tragic hair

Where poisoned needles are stuck.



The cops are nobodies

Getting smaller by the minute

Our joy of living affects their borrowed pride

Their defects bubble forth

Their ineptitude

Their crude tactics

Their shame

For they realize that indeed they don’t belong

In our circus of love.








dijous

9. lights out for you, rather, you jerk!










Bobby Lightbulb, sluthdom’s top mistress









Lights out, Lightbulb!

Barks the dog, the god, the cop.



Hate bromides, you punk!

I reply

And shoot and kill

Without compunction

The interloper cum awful punster.



Came the aggressor

Through my bedroom window

That with brutal effraction he busted (indeed!)



Bring thy butt into the bed!

He commanded while I knew

Exactly under which pillow my gun fretted.



Bring thy butt into the bed

As my bud develops into the bloodiest of

The most gigantic flowers that be, babe!




Bad bid, Bud!

I’m thinking and

Bloodiest and stinkiest your flower

Like that lentous and fetid great orchid

With orchitis and sundry suppurating orchioceles to boot

Which flowers once in a blue moon

I’m told

And the name of which I forget


As I was making believe I was compliant enough

And therefore going to suck

His tacky flower like a degenerate bee

And my firm dry hand my fretting gun

Was feeling with glee.



The neb

The nib of his gun

On the knob of my nob

He notices some of my subtle shenanigans

Ah

Lights out, Lightbulb...!



Hate bromides, you punk!

For which crime

Amongst others

Take that

And that

And that...!









dimecres

8. it must be that I ain't ready to die






I must not be ready to die






I’m a pioneer

Lighting lights

In naked corridors where

Nobody else’s yet trod.



But I’m not ready

To go down the dark unlit

Unlightable

Stairs that probably lead to the bottomless

End.



I retrace a little my steps

“Let me go to apologize (I tell

Myself) to all those I’ve left behind

Reading or musing

Blind

A little more in the dark

After I’ve lit all those new lights

Along the new corridors

Nobody had given light to nor even trod on

Before.”




dimarts

7. call the dog Geez-ass









Call the dog Geez-ass and beat the hell out of it









I hate dogs

When that creepy football

Player got so thoroughly insulted

By all – the fucking mob of moral turds

I was horrified

I thought here is a creep kills dogs

And every fucking dog turd lover

Falls fangs and nails on his throat and

Tears him to shreds.



Shitty dog turd lovers

I hate them as much as

The shitty dogs and their ubiquitous

Turds – disgusting animals all

With the soul of cops.



I hate cops

I hate Geez-ass

The creepy football player

Who might have earned my sympathy

Shittily said that he had found Geez-ass

Geez-ass – fucking dog turd with the

Soul of a cop.



I hoped he meant

He had called one of his turdy dogs

Geez-ass and beaten

The crap out of it

But no

He had become just another shitty

Football player – a dog turd

Licker – an ass lapper – a

Cop turd lover

Now I also hate him.








dilluns

6. soldiers : clostridia









Soldiers : clostridia







Soldiers clostridia you

Are the lowest zombiest

Of the most disgusting bottom crawlers.



Why to kill or die

For Merkin’s poisoned apple pie?




Because we are rotten with murderous stupidity, sir!

Rotten, sir!

With murderous, sir!

Stupidity, sir!

Sir!

Sir!







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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