For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dimecres

Cat Alone -11-









May 3











A grainy film on the screen. She walks roughshod all over him, she, the proud owner of a cunt, which had so long held complete sway over him, a surrogate dog, spooked, nodding, obedient, irrelevant. She needs only, so it seems, breathe skillfully, a heavy panting, and an abrupt doomsday of weird reveries installs itself upon his subjugated mind. Mm, upon my word, so help me. Anyway, no matter, what I mean is same case with me...I shudder at her whims, her successes and exploits are her teats, her ass and the holes therein, gloriously slimy, but when she demands more whiskey and gloats at me, the lousy callused shattered flesh of her parasitical slug, the rotten lip of truth is that, drenched gladiator ready for hilarious action or not, she gets on my nerves.



Here she is now, on the stinking bleachers, at my side, at the dog show competition, wide-eyed, absorbed, and me thinking twice at the morbid idea of having those furred shits on four legs displaying their pimp-like abhorrent wherewithal; plus so help me all those faggots and all those creeps surrounding my endangered sanity; dogs or gods, ogled at, doggedly; I’m chuckling at the ordeal; looks of disbelief fry me, ardently jumping, sizzling from all around.



–Sorry, an optical illusion, I say (lame excuse) to my wife, I imagined one of those pudgy thugs that drive the droves of non-verbal four-legged goons had had her coarser hormones skyrocket of themselves just at this fragile instant where the show barnstormily peaked and the grueling aftermath of so many cells bristling and abrasively melting was a rampage of vectors gone urgently and urgently into the most dismal and nocturnal toil, I mean, shouldn’t they tweak the spectacle a little so that at least the two-legged bitches don’t strut in rhythm and concert with the dogs? For I’ve seen them naked under the tight dyke bundles they wrap themselves with, and believe me, my crimson grin outstretching, they wouldn’t win any prize, lest the prize should be, mm, upon my word, for mirthless bigotry, or primal jingoism.



Severe, stirred up, saber-rattling, sinewy, the pithy athlete, my wife, sanguinarily, unremorseful, glowers my way, and then she smiles heavenly, of a sudden her decent avatar most deceptively summoned.



–Qi Donzell! She screams delightedly, for she’s seen, behind my hexed ectoplasm, the ominous cop Qi Donzell, another traitor to his class (instead of killing the owners, he tortures his own.) What are you doing here also, I didn’t know you were such a fan! Superb, isn’t it. What a thrill, no friar would burst with more scarlet tumefaction in the presence of his crammed full, richly lactating vineyard, than we with such lovely strip passerelle of otherworldly creatures!



She moves with him. When she did I also rose. Always loath to meddle in lovers’ fierce sparrings. Someone liable to blow a gasket in the hornets’ nest, and then what...? A hecatomb of hornets, I suppose.



Outside, far from the wretched gawkers, twilight. Plastified droppings were falling from helicoptered candidates. Such fadoodle even from the sky. Man! I forthwith left the tainted surface and became troglodytic. The subterranean funfair lithely grew in bulk. Unquenchable I blossomed, deeming the turmoil a glittering jar where Pandora still was plumbing her schnauzer as a rat in a cesspool looking for yet unraveled goodies.



Lax and in passably fashionable rags, my autonomous structure traveled amongst the toying mob. Unadvisedly, so help me, I collided against the steps atop which, upon my word, a narrow plank lay where a zealous painters’ crew perilously perched... The band of brush-wielding brothers were sedulously replenishing with thick glutinous carmine putty, and until farctate, the carved scars a recent tough struggle, featuring shop-owners vying with pistol-wielding fools, had punctured plus cryptically punctuated on the boards over the freak circus where the barker, or outside magnet, wheedled for attention. I showed with discreet signs and mischievous beckonings and eye-movements and gestures and whatnot to the drudgingly enmeshed, now chillingly scarred, scowling and spidery painters the fondness-craving, complicity-seeking, empathy-embezzling barker, a misshaped dwarf. The painters threatened to quash the foiling clown, who had no subterfuge to show for on account of the fact that he didn’t even know what the fuck everybody was furthermore demeaning him for, all in all still more clueless and humpty than before, poor guy.



I saw him sulking while regardlessly, all unburdened, I was leaving the amusing scene, in search of more variety. Which I encountered elsewhere.














Forthcoming attractions – mm, that iron fist over the subversive cocky eager beaver who smirking picks up the phone – the stripling swells curdled with scorn in the sardonic asylums – the seedlings raked over the loam by orderly handsome Albanian peasants – the shrugged-off fanciful obscenity over the frazzled resilient corpse of a crone dying with new tribulations – the coarse eagle perched on the sprouted heavens where the cowboys’ naked horns after all always fail to reach – the adventure of the wife with the broken halo: “Through the fucking of your wife they are fucking you, and that’s your pleasure: their fucking you...” – white nerves drafted like assumed serpents under the shroud where the shriveled protoplasm, feeling hortatory, glosses on, plenty coherent and never weirder than a politician promising a newer plan – all those ethereal tatters, turbatrices and terebellas, swimming in the empty eye that thaws in the next fortnight. All those glamorous forthcoming attractions, I say, due in the next fortnight or so, take the edge and the itch away, sure damp my wishes to see the less fiery attractions of today.



While I’m checking the gaudy posters, there’s this fruitcake moving with sloth, rubbing shoulders, and what is he whispering? “I pledge allegiance to your balls...” Women wept I remember when they heard this inane declaration, slightly amended perhaps; an orchestrated compunction swelling up out of a lump of livid she-crocodiles brimming with the unspeakable diseases; and there they were, dead or alive, the military boys, never a confederacy of genius by any standard, so help me, out or in from or for another crusade, where the targets abounded, the distresses brewed, the weapons reigned and all-out brigandage was the rule...



The fruitcake’s withered occiput betrayed an occult abscess, the folds of his ear beshat a staid helping of toad gunk.



–I don’t belong, I said, to the hysterical unfucked, don’t shatter under neurosis, don’t vanish every evening in the varnished doldrums, the sprockets of my throat don’t get raucous in the middle of the solitary night like a starling’s by a kestrel stricken midway while the Sun occludes itself in melancholy funk...



The fairy tells me, and he’s not wrong at all, that I am nothing but a sorry insipid wisecracking nonentity. Bully for him. I never aspired to worse.





dilluns

Cat Alone - 10 -









May 2











The epic beginning as soon as the man leaves his house. And the fat matron goddess-like at the top of the narrow long stairs, telling me: “Roy Marimon, you are certainly more than the best. You are, Marimon, the optimal.”



–Here! Don this, she said, tossing me a white cloth. Pitchkettled, I still stepped lively, went all the way up with the rag hanging from one of my hands. Here, let me, she said, and agape I remained as she imposed let’s say her will, invested me with the teeshirt, that was white all over except for the big caption in black block letters in front. It said: “I Am Marimon, the Optimal.”



No use laughing at the joke, she was calmly serious. Now she said: “You are one in ten million; walk proudly, my son; swim forth on the waves of ovation, for you are uniquely optimal. In your early teens you were the chief athlete of your nation; soon in your twenties you were the paramount novelist of your nation. And now? Now you’ve earned it, disproportionately even. Here, start her off, she’s all yours, my hero; the youngest, tenderest, newest, prettiest little whore; vas-y mon petit, vas-y mon enfant, vas-y mon marquis, vas-y!”



And then? Then Roy Marimon had his fun with the little devil.








Indeed, and it’s awkward to acknowledge but a rift appeared in the mob attending after the shipwreck the crematory. Acquaintances now in conflict with each other – how do you call it – hideous entanglements, contemptible brawls going on all around me. Bruised offal the hips of my neighbor. Turned into pulp the goat nipples of the old widows.



From the ceiling an unnerving fickleness – cinders or snowflakes, and recently seared runny pieces of gore now afloat, getting into people’s throats, gagging the formerly civil inhabitant, bugging, worst, buggering the retired lieutenant colonel, the wives losing their cachet, their eyes and ear-holes and nostrils and cunts and anuses recklessly obturated, a fog inside and tarrying in the vestibules, and a noise of foghorns, and the dulcimers and fiddles, the psalteries and lutes, and the timbrels and tabrets and sackbuts and mandolas baying most discordantly.



I was turning into a smelly fish – my hands all scaly. And from the hellish adits and fangs of the furnaces where the remains of the wretches burned in neglect a fishy smell fled and enveloped the public. The swimming ashes beckoning, spectral, pledging maybe some sort of collective action if only all of the present teamed up, pitched in. But they, everybody, were a trifle to excited, elbowing each other, with hatred, or a yen for survival. I heard hectic groans. With apprehension I approached the faulty appliance. A syrup of corruption invaded my integuments. A rattled jingle sounded then. The entrance of the soft-bodied ex-machinas. In servitude the prostitutes, their attitude the epitome of oaths and mercies, had the common courtesy to rescue me from such squalor.



I borrowed a fiver from one of the philanthropic anesthetists. Now I had the mammoth task to stop the bleeding. I didn’t want to read next morning in a shifty tabloid the headline: “Mm, mm! She bled as she scampered into the melting horizon where the Sun drowsed in style... And you wouldn’t have guessed who bled the harder, she or the kingly aster.”



In the slammer, despite currying favor from every thug uniformed and not, the scoundrel the noose he tasted most chokingly. The smell it is, I said, that makes each of us wax wod. As the feeble-minded are yoked to welfare we the breathers are so to a ludicrous look of burning intelligence. Too pretty to resist, ah woe. And then nobody discovers that the eye has a cunt of its own until it is too late, and the mating is consummated and the consequences, my fond compatriots, alas, who can tell.



diumenge

Cat Alone - 9 -









May 1










Tampering brick by brick with the messy facts, quenching with blood the what, the thirst, with a chalice full of mendacious substance, darning and scrubbing in the midst of reveries, vagaries, through dreams wondrous and galled, Sarah the shmuck roams among the ruins of her house, the lintel dicing for scratches, the surface of every object ready for swift execution.



Sarah the sour, every one of her awful parts drained away of joy and grace, lets go of an utterance that I’m pained to understand.



I said “what...?” hinting, with a moue and sundry juggleries, misshapen sons and daughters of the scant skill of a total cripple, that to be debriefed now by her and the lavas and sundry debris released by a crater that broke out and farted away all sorts of mysterious strangers, entrenched devils, unsustained steps, lightly worn exuviae, spitting salivous priests, their slippery slopes and clichés galore, some saint’s withdrawn withdrawals, the atrocious debonair gentlemen kept in awe, the noses running, their stinking marathoners, plus the banal managers, shitty mangers, sundry monsters out there in evil deeply embedded, and so on, would be..., would be one and the very same thing, and Sour of course duly corresponded with a look back at the attendant horrors tempting her sleep...



–You bet, Sour, I do condemn malevolence. Redemption, day in, day out, from the dreadfully horrid job of scary slaughters and surgical insertions, is what I also plausibly, diligently, loofah, loofah, loofah in tow, I look for.



Over their shoulders the timid turtledoves were getting stained – whimpering paragons of urbane longing – once they tasted blood, ah woe, they became corruptibly enraptured, consumptively enraged.



–My dream, she said, of the clairvoyant waif who scrubs the sore-footed snow over the barren dicey wastes where the rough crewmen dismantle the mistletoe when suddenly the fight that rises can’t conceal how loose and wobbly and slack the atoms of society, or, I mean, they were keeping in tight captivity a tyrant who cursorily had slain each of the geezers and what a dreadful gambit it was, for...



Our mutual friend Joe was at the door. There was his shadow on the floor, spread as a godly figure, and there was a ray of light widening, growing from its dark head, broadening down to its massive flowing body...



–Your specs are ignited, Joe, I said, rejoicing, for the Sour couldn’t be the sole martyr anymore in that prostibulous morass our house. Time instead for the Sour to deploy her robust meretricious lures, to scramble her flexing muscles, to go sniveling, ad captandum for the whirr, the vibes of dampness declared, of tongue scabbed, of tickles impetuous and the roar of localized itches.



I became the butler indeed, overwhelmed with groaning chores and smoother duties.



–Relax and puff, my friends, discuss philosophy and plumb politics while I take my umbrella and run to the brewer.









Lost in reveries, in woeful apathy, sweetly fancy-riddled, catching tepid glimpses, among the wavelets on the crust of the river, of the liquid glints in my new coffin: aqueous...



Aqueous, beyond dotage, lyrical and ablaze, a soul haggard and shrieking, a face snotty, with which intrepidity nonetheless the duped husband gave himself no quarter, and displayed such courage that never the gutsier cowboy against the injun nor the soldier against the hun could’ve claimed for themselves against his bleak feat the triumph, should he then, thinking himself base ordure, rid the world of such stain on the human phenomenon and drown away his scarred defunct stabbed eidolon, or...



Resilient, wealthier with the spoils of experience, more cohesively shaped after the few lackluster deeds of his counterparts, looking himself now heroic against the dismal shroud of their sad promiscuous squabbles, shouldn’t he instead like the freed orphan awake cleverer and sharper and anoint himself a renewed citizen looming in poetic license more and more gigantic among the quaintly resonating absolute zeroes of common laymen and the melting dwindling landscapes that now he can fondle to his heart’s content...?



I gave my proud back to the ghastly spittle of the flowing river, in the dying twilight showing green – green: the color of rot – and caressing boulders and obscene boles on my way up, kicking in the teeth or the nuts the sniveling beasts that in fairness thought me one of them and of whom the bones buckled in excruciating pain, I suppose, for they (the beasts) bailed out beggarly moaning, with some broken ribs, I thought, hanging behind like tails that would sketch in their scabrous periplus back to the lairs ravishing hieroglyphics for ripe metaphrastic ascertainers to reap and ascertain, as I say I nudged my way across the crowd to where the whores don’t sneer at a leg up on them nor kick the fervent nuts under the lifted legs, for we humans are not beasts neither, no sir.





divendres

30. too dapper for words









Natty grammarian on the prowl









I went to China just to prove a case

Was researching the intricacies of a certain letter

Or quaint word

Plus the R had gone absent and without pay

Anyhow my point had to be made.



And then ah

The freshness of the lips of the ladies

The ladies’ lips’ freshness

Smiling at my smartness

The fragrance of new morning roses

The new morning roses’ fragrances from the thick pink lovely ladies’ lips

Smiling at my elegance

Me dressed all in leather

The leather black and shiny

Uncreased as shrugging I said: well

The cow was already dead and her meat eaten you know?




Distinguished fellow indeed me

As I walked along the thronged avenues

That linked the several museums.



The drabness of the museums

The shabby halls and corridors

The disproportionate cost or unaffordable dearness of the lousy catalogs.



Bought nothing and yet

I got my prize among millions.



It was alive and kicking.

I heard it from the ladies

Breathing roses at my delighted face.



Though short

It had innumerable meanings.



I think it was the dreaming word WU.



At the beginning it was a bug

A beetle on its back

Its three legs wavering in the air trapped inside a tub

But then I saw the word upside down

And the tub was reversed and the bug with three legs

Walked fast and away...



As fast as I’m escaping from this Chinese poem

A might barney-like

Clickety-clack

Plumb cryptic perhaps

As I quitted the premises

The forward ladies in the front row ready to grab and tangle with

My two wu-wus

And my third leg

Too elegant to resist

Too dapper for words.





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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