For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dimarts

27. well and why not



Have you found the yellow sign yet?










of course that’s the deal

if the dream is feasible and plausible enough

I’ll make it happen and the hell with it

alternate realities or what have you

the point it is a pleasant enough pursuit.



but if it is too ugly or impossible then what

nothing I’ll skip it.



I dreamed last night that my coffin was yellow

all yellow – a burnished shiny keen yellow

well and why not

and now I had to think hard

either I had already the coffin and then I would paint it the same sort of yellow

or as it proved that among my scant belongings I owned no coffin

I had first to buy or make me one

and then paint it yellow

that was the deal

and a welcome one too.



but I also dreamed that then two thugs

while I was unawares cleaning something

some weeds and burned candles

at the corner of my office

two thugs had been been busy at my back

clearing my coffin

stealing my appurtenances therein...



as I confronted them and saw their nonchalance

their hated indifference to my questioning

their malicious matter-of-factness as to what pertained

to their hideous activities

and in my anger I punched one of the thugs

the fattest and thickest

in his fucking gut

and the other

his hands loaded with my stuff

had this frightened face...



well all that I couldn’t make it happen

unless two thugs really materialized thereabouts

and proceeded to rob me

that’s to say the contents of my spanking new yellow coffin

while I was employed on tidying the corner of my office

which effectively held a profusion of burned candles and tiny nascent weeds

as I realized when I kneeled down and started sprucing up

the up till now indeed too neglected corner

of my office

which is all so apposite

for who would’ve thought

that ancient ceremonies would still be represented as relics

or what have you archeological vestiges

oozing up to the floor of my humble office and then even

imprinting themselves as acid effluvia

on the palimpsests of my dreaming machine

the head?



thugs be warned though

I punch thugs’ guts easily enough

when so provoked and instructed by the oneiric shamans

of my archaic memory

and never cowed neither

for I know that the consequences are already written

in the simmering histories of the skies.






dissabte

26. burning like squibs









Palimpsests on the nuns’ tummies










I’ve seen the iron-willed pencil

with which my busy umbrella striates

its delirium tremens on the tarnished buttocks

of all those clouds so pregnant with malice

– all of them rostrums embellished

with twee tackiness and average abjection

from where stultified heads of preachers preach

their claustrophobia into spirals of pocks

that rain on earth and roam the men’s-rooms

where mopey moan the moraines.



Pocky are the morbid buttocks

every pock a stemma that oozes semens

as if it were another Roman nun’s navel.



Ah the semens – nemeses of my mama!



Would she pester against the establishment!



An establishment that allows the demeaning of the female

whose vulnerability

(like the podophthalmic antennae of the crabs that haunt the merkins

the stilted gems whose meaningful wet samaras fall

like omens on the ludicrous wobbly cobbles

where the manhoods of men trot larval and writhing)

an establishment vile enough to wallow

on the ruins of the vulnerable female made then as labile

as the dry striated semens the nuns umbilically store

stunning sluts seen from a distance...



Wiry by the wayside

sheltered by some rusty eaves from the slums

tried as an awkward obstetrician to read the new wisdom written

by the pencil of my umbrella on the bankrupted marrow of the sky...



It was like trying to read luggies and snot

collapsed on the hilt of my hand

a semen cru of a dispirited vintage gone to pot.



My mom was right

musclemen emboss with their fist the welkins

as if the welkins were the walls of their dens

where they mate and sputter

and scatter the entrails and whittle the skulls.



And the morbid clouds are the foolhardy buttocks

where the fists collided

the teasing asses

harnessed in poisonous chill where the noses snooped

and later the mops erased the names of the mimes that came to cry

their semens entanglements of resented writings done

with pricks that were fists.



Pops like a van carrying fireworks and exploding midway

a bolt of lightning.



With this

(my eyes on stilts burning like squibs)

to nil comes my cavil

I only know that

the sky’s the puppet ass of a worthless fat whore also.








dijous

25. the rot is on









How hard again the transit










Caretaker in a girls’ boarding school

I took care of the feminine bodies

With hand unnoticed.



I washed their dirty clothes

I cleaned their bedrooms and bathrooms

I counted every item of clothing – checked carefully

That the tags stuck – counted holes in the meshes

At the barriers on the boundaries explicitly surrounding

Our hallowed ground.



I appreciated them being always ‘round.



There were no dead

There were no strikers

No internecine becrippling of the sweet-smelling troops.



Gravely I used to fondle the mud

How well I remember now the mud

The soft malleable mud where their buttocks and their piss had lain

Smilingly beckoning

Evocatively dreaming of creation.



How well the tasty mud

Now that the ground is unyielding

Now that the dead and the strikers sinisterly come sidling to our side

Sick snarling brutes

With evil intentions of mayhem wreckage thorough extermination

Now that the pillows are nails

Now that the eager sores are never asleep

Now that the torment lingers

Now that the plague rules the roost

Now that famine is ubiquitous.



There’s no clean water

The mines are crumbling on our very heads

And the strikers don’t strike with the paltry sticks and the makeshift flint shovels

At the stony marbled coal that hides maybe the pure torrents underneath.



We are trapped in those galleries

Dive into whichever side and the sharp griddle of raw bord cuts at your wrists

The hard strata of ore surly draw farther prisons on your scalp

Shines the blood on the shiny carbuncles.



We are all in transit

Make fucking do!


I shout to the strikers whose baseless uproar threatens our work

We are husks borne by the draft of the revolving doors of renewal

Don’t you fucking understand?




Because they were appalled that I wouldn’t allow the dead to be properly buried

What the fuck would “properly” mean

I shout

It is the fucking same

It is the fucking same

It is the fucking same!



Buried or not a corpse is a fucking corpse

The rot is on either way

The flies the grubs the maggots and the bugs

The patches and splotches of liquid rot

It is the fucking same “properly” or not!




So nice that those girls were

The fuzz in my guts (grown ferocious

With extraneous eyes and fangs

Devouring each other – the more proximate the first)

Even the fuzz infallibly yearns

That buried or unburied

Rotting away all the same

The strikers and the dead were already one and the same

As the ugly and the beautiful were for me the same

Indiscriminate I in my attentions

To the scrumptious hulls they so carelessly and adorably left behind

Anonymous underwear which my wounds healingly did wrap

The counted items so deeply inspected before they went into the washing machines

The molted meltings so cherished

The abandoned themselves that they so blatantly forgot or even despised

In their transit to the paradise

Of a future sure promised

Yet so long to really come by to

As witness

Alas

As witness

Our plight

Where promise gurglingly beckons indeed

Though indeed so very faintly now...







dimarts

24. soothing the cruelties










Cruets at the ready









Near the river

The quotidian fights and the ghastly torture

Pimps dogs servants whores

Harsh beatings swift murders...



How easy to turn one’s head toward the geometric gardens nearby

And peripatetically expound upon the landscape

With a friend who also wants to avoid trouble.



And how comforting to apply the cruets of Dalí

A few drops of olive oil over the wounds of pain

A few more drops of the wine vinegar of the sarcasm of his wit

To comment also on the uncouth happenings of the evening.



The heroism of the haggler

Who educes from the gaudy figment hell-bent on slaughter

A meager reduction of the fee

The whore made of sawdust who coaxes the devil

Into yielding some of his flame

So that she might explode with glee

The enchanter who to his tongue’s hilt emits

Those siren’s sounds of wasted velocity

The knots on the necks of the sorrowful lackeys and attendees

Who can’t rightly discern among the umbrages and the felonies

The indelible impact of the fact that we are not there

Not we.



Gotta be outside

Can’t be in

Could be in

Only if unseen
.”



Them the dapper and the known

They have the run of the place

We the unsightly and the wise

Are banned from the light
.”



And now?

The night steadfastly impelled by the shrieks of the dying

Bestows its dark blessing

The river ekes out a reasonable current

Propelled by its recent affluents

The new bloods that the gutter brings.



The dumb chorus observes the utter darkness

And mumbles damp sentences among the boles of the trees

Vertices of the labyrinthine garden

Where dawn is bound to drip

Drop by drop

As from the cruets into the crudities.





diumenge

23. gods - the posthumous ones








Crawling gods hairy dark unkillable












Giddily slither the bugs

With their lily-like harpoons their beady eyes

Their many legs hairy and black

Their mottled glans

Their puce prepuces

Their bleating mouths

Their unctuous invocations

Their vicious hearts

Their wrinkled assholes from where volumes

Are shitted of quivering stinking platitudes...



I’ve been a secretary to a dentist

To a clumsy dentist I might add

I’ve seen pain

I’ve seen faces scorched and flayed

Unwrapped

The faces you’d see when you opened the iron maiden’s door

And the fellow inside had been pierced through the nose

The eyes the mouth

His bowels topsy-turvy

His organs every which way

And burst you bet

Susurrant seeping garbledly gurgling

Telling one to pull the chain on it all

Once and for all

The deed done...



I’ve been smirking high on a booster seat

Fronting the circus

I’ve even had my courage briefly rubbed off

My heart lumbering

My blood whipping

My lungs yammering nonsense

When for pure pukka tiptop deterrence a beast jumped on the bleachers

We keen on aucupation

A hawk feeding on the filthy wealthy

Extracting its tithe on the eyes of the onlookers:

There is something as having too much fun...



But those bugs

Those bugs were unkillable

Did I try to stick up their asses a stick of dynamite...?

Did I ever!

But no

No event so singular that could end them

Not even a nuclear bomb making a dent

Their atoms undetachable

Tightly bound with an inexpugnable glue

Are they gods...?

They must be

Probably the original ones

Or else the posthumous ones

The gods we left behind

For that’s the only way to kill them

To kill the unkillable bugs or gods

Shadowy presences nibbling gnawing

Ratty rotting

Fraying scouring

At the dusty corners under your bed

Thereabouts ubiquitous

Scrunching freely

Corroding your corns your feet

And beyond

Your innards

Your soul – membranous tattered torn down...



By wiping your conscience clean

Tabula rasa

Die please die

Die...



And thus kill the gods.







dijous

22. eye angelized








Angel eye










He approaches - a fish out of water waving his filamentous fins

His breathing hands sifting the desert dust

And he’s got a knife he’s got a few sharper ones too stuck in his sash

Armed to the gills

After the gelding I’ll be much better than a man he assures me

I’ll be angelized.



Dove into the swamp

Swam until I became a riddle of slugs soft weeds bloodsuckers teeth

Ran through the jungle

The freezing reef I climbed like a skulking ascending glacier

Then I lost my foot and my alibi

Fell a wreck at their cataphracted feet

Blindfolded and gagged they had me quarantined

A luminescent amoeba now-defunct enkindled the bleak sojourn

She was a tiny parasite in one of my eyes

She saw my suffering

She remembered my childhood

When I was such a stud where all the old patricians croaked with envy

That I'd better be made better than a man soon

My prick showing the proud depravity

Of a lean never lame boomslang

Agreed agreed their jealous rusted voices croaked

And the amoeba clung

And made love to my eye

My all-seeing eye

My angel eye.









dimarts

21. fates frantically webbed









Crisscrossing lines of fate on alleys quite frenzied










One wonders

Why the rapidity

Isn’t it better to stroll along the road?

The procession of cars with the rushing nuns crammed in

Shall collide with the procession of cars replete with the flushed heavy families

That speed on the contrary direction

And what a bother all it shall be

The shambles the smokes the conflagrations

The bodies the bloods

The sirens the hounds

My car was stolen long ago – by thieves one supposes

Never owned that damned annoyance a dog

Never had therefore an “accident” provoked by such a pesky overgrown bug

Now my friends’ house

The same I used to crash in up to the day before yesterday

Was also stolen – by the cops – or the state – (same thing)

Now I see them coming back on the opposite side (my friends)

Across the river of crazed vehicles

The friend in front waves the papers – it seems their legal or judicial

(Or whatever) steps in the city have been successful

Their efforts to reclaim the property paying at last off

The replevin papers in order – waved dangerously aloft where the current

From the accelerating vehicles gathers and eddies in little maelstroms

The friend behind looks more harried

He doesn’t rush with the same alacrity he lags he sags he staggers

He gestures to me that I ought to go back with the joyous friend

Than he is due behind

He has a more urgent matter now to take care of than the retrieval

Of one’s house

I signal that no way

That that’s my goodbye for now

There they go sweating and floundering up the side of the road

Me leisurely strolling down the other

The middle unassailably taken by the blur of hastening crisscrossing traffic

The nodding friend whose whole craving (gnawing yearning) is now

To touch back his house detaches himself

Hangs back the second one hassled disturbed

The opposite traffic darts against him

As my opposite traffic rips against me

That’s why I can’t get the gist of what he says or even gesticulates

That much I gather

That he’s seen some of his family on a train due incontinently out

And he’s conflicted

What the fuck to do

The house successfully reclaimed

The family going away forever

He must go back he’s indicating

He must catch the fucking train

The house be damned

That must be goodbye forever

He sweats he thrashes about he’s about to collapse

But he keeps on walking fast taking my direction now

Overpassing me by far all on the other side of the noisy track

He looks despaired

He fears he won’t make it

There he goes what a distressing marionette

What a discomfort for the eyes

What an embarrassment of a puppet disheveled frayed shabby moribund

He is madly rushing against traffic in the opposite side of the road

Where I’m also leisurely strolling on my way to the same station

Where sure I’ll catch a train

I’ll catch a train or other

That’s a given

Never you fret.







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: