For Every Tib and Tom Cat

diumenge

29. subterranean funfairs / plastified droppings from the helicoptered candidates









Thou anew with thine fair ticket aloft (for the return trip)










Tidying everything before I’m gone

Something to remember me by (I thought)

And now it seems they remember me by

The endearing sobriquet of “the tidy guy.”



Picked up all the papers

Piled them up in tidy mounts

Picked up even all the discarded underwear

From the secretary girls dirty after their parties

And saintly debaucheries.



Now I was loaded with my goodbye packages

The street a bit slippery

The metro station the wrong one

The corridors dark

Some of my little suitcases misplaced

The funfair underground labyrinthine

Its shops darkening and almost deserted

And the criers not even bothering with the shadow of me.



Luckily I met a friend of old

Who hadn’t given up

He was back at work hard as nails

And he put everything to rights

With a sad face though

Because I was surrendering to pressure again

Bailing out retiring to pastures green

Alone and naked and empty-pocketed and so on.



Little consolation he gave me a few mementoes

For my collection of trifles and worthless trinkets

From the city back at home in the sticks.



Took from his pocket a few electioneering badges

And match boxes (three or four)

That he’d found on the floor

As he was walking today and he’d thought

About me

For which I was very

Very touched.



We said goodbye there at the dark platform

I see still his hand waving goodbye

And gesturing showing which way the right way

To get to the good station that would carry me

To the station

Where the train would carry me home.



Such perfection of organization the world

I was so touched

My fingers still smelled of the girls’ crotches

The train was lulling me to sleep

I had a slight erection

Peaceful pastoral home beckoned

And my trinkets joyfully tinkled

What a perfect world indeed.





divendres

28. clues on the angular walls









Angular walls of the fortress hotel checked for clues
















Ah yes the hotel

Well it was full and we were bound to stay by the window

Looking at the snow

The hall was teeming thick with breaths and smoke

I told my son as soon as you see snow anywhere

Scan the landscape

Wherever you are in a train a plane a coach a hotel

And be light-footed enough so that you take your place

Near the nicest available girl

The more well endowed with chest material

And ass substance the better

For the hours shall be long

And nothing warms a heart or a body as a nice big chested big assed woman

Son at your side.



Keep your ears pealed she’ll tell you soon such intimate details

As about the time she pissed herself and had to hang her underwear

Well wrung on the racks of the communal bathroom

Or... But you get my drift – as I was saying substantial stuff indeed.



The wind was blowing outside

The snow afloat

The trees surrendering

The bears hungry.



Scheming or running

The runners and the cheaters were scurrying in and out of doors.



I told my son never you fret

Morning comes always soon enough

Often your are caught by its light even in the middle of your endeavors

And you are puzzled and amazed

And you scream to the forces unseen that hey you weren’t even half finished

With you secret delicate nocturnal chores

For only in hypnagogic vision one guesses enlightened

That there is truth and that there touches one reality.



I remember now in the tundra

When we were stationed in the abandoned mine

The frozen torrent had to be dug up in order to find some of the soldiers

That had died during the previous war

And had been buried in there though nobody knew exactly where

At which point all along the intricacies of the stream

Buried in sewage buried in which type of taxidermic reptilian sands

Or in which sludge I mean or slurry rather

That their moving corpses shriveled to weirder shapes

Than when they were just tidy dudes aching for action

In the dancing floor of the massacring grounds.



There then where the fortification at one of its banks ran in zigzag

Arbitrarily letting in inlets or contrariwise encroaching on the trench itself

The immemorial water had drawn into the rock

There we dug and well look never mind

The conditions were infinitely worse than now.



In fact of course everything evolves always to a better stratum

As stuff adds its modifying thrust

The outlook improves

And the definite glory you know what it is?

Is dying

Dying when your work has then been done

Once and for all – ah then yeah the sighing the blessed letting go...



Meanwhile though our hands were so frozen our arms so stiff

That we had to feed each other

We soldiers paired face to face with our stiff arms clumsily fishing

Into the gritty pond of frozen food

On a plate all told in front of us

And then we lifted our arms and the fellow in front

Of you fed you with his stiff arm as you fed him with yours

The frozen muddy dollop of incongruous potato at the end of your glove...



And then almost of a sudden

Wouldn’t you know!

The Sun would always explode

Everything unfroze

The torrent flew the dead exited disguised and unstuck

Their lids unclung our arms jumped alive

The flowers popped all over the field

The birds were ubiquitously heard they had resuscitated

We started to sing songs much as oarsmen do

We joked we slapped our reciprocating backs

The cook danced a jig with his ladle aloft.



I never forgot those days

How could I and how could you now son

Look the snow is the page where all is written

Indelibly don’t you agree?

Forever extant and the Sun explodes only in order

That the page be renewed

Where another episode of our epic should appear

Splashed in such magnificent clarity

Our eyes at the beginning smarting

And we rubbing in consequence our lids with some alacrity

So that the phosphenes should add a few more protagonists

Disfigured and all to the queer proceedings on the stage.



Then the snow outside turned red

Arson is the fulcrum where snow finds its leverage

Is also the setting in where the incubi delve

They are blushing as their alibis are shot

They are accused to be accessories to asphyxiation.



Beneath the old soldiers smolderingly slumber

But do they fume? Only when the Sun’s too keen

Its explosion unwarrantedly muscular

The processes meanwhile push on the landscapes puff on

The rampant smuts offer their syllabic gambits against the eroded walls

The ramparts become flatly synthetic if bizarrely stained

With a language I don’t understand.



Every entity this side and that of the glass gets imbued

With the fiery madness

Macabresquely prostrates itself.



It’s too cold again

The son’s trying to disentomb the father from the snow

The father unfound

Unfound as yet and surely for evermore.



Useless frostbitten undertaking son

Scan rather the apparatus that suddenly takes off

A revival of sorts

At it then courageously.



Virtuous after such debauchery wallowing

My eyes not clinging unclogged

Under masses of snow.



But why the elegiac tone?

Scan scan the landscapes

Now

The protruding forms behind the wondrous

Angles

Do though take care it doesn’t pay to scrape one’s shin.





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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