For Every Tib and Tom Cat

divendres

they started drawing with their scalpels thin lattices












fuliginously silhouetted against the penumbrous corridor, she tells me: a swath of lit Möbius strips arose around my discarded clothes as the doctors made me strip... I saw the obstetricians eagerly hoard some of them... as if those twisted strips were any worth to have or relevant at all anent their diagnostic criteria...



later, they tarried, mumbling amongst themselves... as I showed obvious signs of discomfort... they pretended then to already get to work... they started drawing with their scalpels thin lattices... thin bleeding lines on the random fields of my exposed abdominal skin... ellipses mostly, they drew, oddly enough... the axes of those ellipses generated, with the gathering blood, shiny carmine drops that now looked like cones, now like cylinders... or else, as vortexes or spirals now... all the topological surfaces... somewhat polarized... painful medical procedures, all told, that... I found no clue as to what purpose they were having... I wanted to raise my concerns about... the whole set of shenanigans the doctors were engaging in... their tools, for instance, normally used in garages in order... in order to mend automobiles... my brain activity... showing now signs of utmost stress... my reflexes less automatic than... you... might have wished for...



expressions of extreme disgust were, I'm sure, facially appearing... not only facially... also on my whole façade... shifty shades... shifting summits of scowling... of snarling... of nail-baring... subtly demonstrating that... I was perhaps desiring the death of the butchering bunch... they though... kept trifling with my innards... damned interlopers... talking meanwhile their pusillanimous garbage... bland pablum for the abulic... all my bodies in a state... sieged by piddling anomies... nothing to write home about, I thought...



suddenly... a shout arose from the archaeological ruins of my forgotten self: "get rid of the fucking fetus already and quit immerding around...!"



their paws spastic like those of a constipated dog while dropping hard tiny turds on the unyielding ground...



then the blustery blowzy peroxided nurse... massaging with long-drawn nails my anus... she said: it improves your range of inner vision, speeds up nerve movement, increases air flow through the bowels... all of these boost your ability to either battle it out... or give in and compromise your survival rate... the individual organism, whose adaptive value is well known amongst the more cognitive of scientists, fears naught beyond the biological...



are there onlookers up in the dark bleachers of the operating theater...? why is she become another arcane signaler...? keeps on wincing and prancing toward the missing audience, I notice from the corner of my right eye... she says: behavior of this sort suggests that the amplitude of both distinctions is one of half a degree if even that much... so, though it matters a lot for the individual's survival, it is on the other hand neither beneficial nor pejorative in the broader world of social and non-social phenomena... (a dimension to take into consideration and nowadays being thoroughly investigated...) that the woman shed or not the evolving parasite that replicates at a furious pace inside her most kernel-like membranes... she mutters against herself... her prattle includes miscues... she's said too much... "the evolutionary mystery of why neuroscientists ultimately fall in bulk prey to the same manias they try to extricate from their patients... are findings that will have to be disclosed at a later lesson..." the surgeons are about to trample her... her heels all scrunched-up already... floored and minced by military boots...



she flees, crying... her sensory functions impaired by the pain and the shame... she doesn't go far, though... dives head first into the whole body magnetic thingamagick... the scanner... whose whizzing and burring betrays its extreme irritation... inimical device, whirring... from idle gone to hysterical gone to insane... "positron turbines..." "raving mad frequencies... hopping on the spread spectrum..." the scanner fries your brains... you always come out, if alive at all, mentally diminished... she probably deems she deserves that kind of cleansing...



lame aphorisms are being tossed about my head... I'm laid out over the moist warm table... my body a swarm of trapped bees... and outwardly innervated with new abnormalities... them buzzing... green-cloaked buzzards feeding on carrion... they kept on jawing, nasally, about spontaneous mutations... rare syndromes... brainstems branching out... I was cool... observing it all from above, unconcerned...



once, twice... here it is again... I remembered the sensation I had being born... I say: here I am, at my birth again... time and again... those trite ephemerides... nonetheless engraved in my old brain... are they, the rummaging intruders, reviving the old groove...? I guess they must... it lends credence to this supposition the fact that I'm aloft yet unsupported... whereas down below... a woman's legs are spread... and a battalion of hands are ramming in down the broken doors that lead, raggedly, to her all higgledy-piggledy torn, tortured, womb...



I squirmed... the bed was creaking... ominously... battalions of crooked, prickly, ripply hands stampeding inside Elzi's bodies... a-quiver, I tossed the quilt; I stickled pugnaciously between the sheets... how to unstick them... took umbrage with the whole layout... rocketed the bundle against the wall.



dijous

all the suspicious characters are men disguised as women






it must have been the worst cognac ever... like licking a rat, I was thinking... and... getting laid, what a waste...! and then, to top it all, that thing, that hellish beverage...



it threw me for a loop... I went... like a Götterdämmerung monkey... fast toward the sink... hilarious... almost broke my neck... I had to gargle something... the fracid water for the tap... much better than the sulfurous cognac... he... that over-male writer, the Stanley Baker type, in the darling film Eve, with glorious Jeanne Moreau as the ur-fatal female... only that, instead of a "bloody Welshman," the stellar oaf was a no less bloody Catalonian... a writer of sorts... "working for the cinema," his words, undersigning his twisted, fancied, productions with that juicy, or maybe just farcical, name of "MM···WW," which must have made, let's say, the curiosity button, of a few potential employers, itch... "what's this MM···WW thing...? is that the name of a machine...?" "no, just a writer... he also wrote for such-and-such... a film..." clever ploy... the guy perhaps not a total imbecile...



now, the fellow himself, a poor performer indeed... getting laid under those conditions, yeah, what a waste... but then, worse... his cognac, yikes...!



I came back from the sink... we were in his garret... his garret, a narrow venue indeed... not ripened into a pigsty yet, but never so clean either... the charwoman herself had been there while we were chatting about "culture..." not a bit too clean herself either... full of blotches, her face... those red and white blotches caused by a state of depression... she came in limping... dragging her heavy shadow like a corpse... she hanged around... with the little skips and dodges of a clumsy thief... she had no success in unhooking any of the jealous grime... faithful, dogmatic grime on the chapped fake porcelains... whipped despondently at the chaos about... carved a few meager scarifications into the dust... smote a few worthless rags into submission... all her utterances were loud sighs of despair... and then she was gone.



said the writer: she was worth a few fucks last year, wait, two or three years ago... but then his family fell apart... a lot of oblique abductions... some obese characters that burst somehow... decimated... an outspoken boy killed by the cops... the sky falling on the whole family concern... the scheme in disarray... I put her in one of my stories... I made her a disaster of an authoress... never managing to sell a line... even to those shitty religious comics... and then she's killed by her religious would-be publisher... who makes of her a quite successful authoress... she manages to sell now many, many books... she's been gruesomely butchered and her dainty flesh is now being used as little tasty bits packed in tiny books... affordable, mock-refined gifts... her flesh turned into choice morsels of bait for fishes... also, as selected treats for cats... she's a scream now... fishes and cats crazy for the stuff...



back from the sink, I had an item rankling... in my mind... I said... ah yes... something about the gods... "Götterdämmerung monkey..." he had been showing off... much like the writer in the film... only that where Stanley Baker says: "I love all women - six to sixty," he said: "I love all the cunts, from four to one hundred and four..."



I said "one hundred..."? I said "four..."?



he smacked his lips... he said: those pouty lips on the cunts of the little girls... why would god make them like that... if not to entice the lips of us men to give them moist kisses, and the more Frenchified the better...?



I said "god..."? I said "men..."?



he got my drift... ok, or rather not god... that damned usurper... but the goddess, the goddess, yeah... goddess Nature... anyway, why would she make them like this...? if not for us human beings to kiss and revere...?



this talk was throwing me off... he must have felt... the freezing settling in... my side to him quite frozen... sending waves of animus... poisoned quills... his creepy words being a deterrence... he blushed bluish... became uxorious... melting into a swamp of effeminate warmth... this fragile plot of his threatening to crumble...



I thawed... he had gorgeous eyes... burning... black.



he was telling me about an outline now... a thriller... a terror thriller... so intensely... very involved... his eyes burning holes in my integuments... seizing power, my throat constricted, my eyes tearing up... he as possessed... so full of passion...



sham passion... but a woman with a wet vagina doesn't have... too keen a sense... about rightly feeling... what is and isn't bogus... she is busy otherwise... no time unwrapping the convoluted wrappers of pretense...



in the outline, all the suspicious characters are men disguised as women... but, at the upshot, the real culprit... the cruel loathsome killer... is a woman disguised as a man... too predictable, I thought...



I was deflating again... he went into some unashamed capers... "darling, our brief epoch will crystallize into a wreath of unforgettable vignettes... with you as a model, my writing shall become divine..." plenty of slavering rubbish of that tenor, caliber...



and then he drilled me... just fair...



I got up and went to fix me a drink... took a morsel from something bitter... tasted of leather... was I chewing on some of his blinders...? I heard him snoring... I drank the cognac... the scream of horror and disgust must have awaken him... his visage betrayed now a frayed exhaustion... as if his skin had become moth-eaten... failure showing through the gnawed skin... but as I was running like one of those monkeys... the failing gods... and stumbled... he laughed... sonorously...



I said... I remember now... something about the last embers... the dying evening of the gods...



"your plots," I said, "all male chauvinist shit... why don't you... become a woman... disguised... operated... and then... make a killing...?"



"a woman...?" he really looked spent.



I spat onto his bundled clothes and, slamming the querulous door, I breathed the nocturnal air, still with a mingy, pissy, taste in my mouth.



diumenge

cruel play: deaf divinities of death







males are on the wane








we went to see a play in which the dire dictator of that empire had his teams of soccer duly maimed... the field players rendered armless... so that no hand foul could be committed... while the door-keepers or goalies had had to have their legs hacked out so that they could only use their hands in blocking the shots... and scanning around reflectively... the peoples on the bleachers... both in the play... same as those seated near us... looked like (or rather already were) mummies...



we came out of it rather disgusted... all those hissing green skulls at the end, roaming among the vestiges of empire, raving... wallowing in sewage... sewage... its dreadful stink... apparently running like sores on the stage... and the gory mummies, with their perfidious muzzles aflame... coming up to the audience... masked with glowing skulls.... telling each of us on our bewildered faces about what awaits each of us... the hole unlimited... the hole without end of blackest asphyxiating death... death... death... and luridly titivated... like dying whores... stabbed here and there by the slivers of decay... bleeding... or oozing ugly tacky... glaring syrups... staggering among the smokes and the fogs... vitrified notched skulls, green, phosphorescent, telling us... death... death... their foul breaths... exceeding themselves... no man in the audience reacting like a male... a gaggle of geese... cackling... quitting... giving up all resistance... retreating... tails high... taking those excesses up their asses... beyond decency... my nails eager to pounce... angrier by the second... imagine us proper ladies pandering to such filth...! suffocated, Elzi, only yesterday back from the sanitarium, had taken off her gloves... bad choice of show, I thought to myself, recriminatory... she meanwhile... all at once... she moved it up a gear in order to pummel... unmasking the deadly portents... the death portenders... a tigress... she got herself a trophy... a plastic skull sickly refulgent in the sick blinding light... a gangly asthmatic boy behind it... without his shell, helpless, weeping... as if his harpy of a mom were excruciatingly rebuking him again... we won't have no more of your nasty wetsies in your didee...! a scuffle ensued... somebody, a giant, shoved us down... humps in our crania... kicked out of the theater... now rubbing our lumps... disgusted... walking slowly... not elated after having taken action... voided... defeated... all that constant waste...



a deep depression slowly settling in...



home, in our chambers, Elzi, robed as a specter in a dungeon, from mirror to mirror, very self-conscious about her "insect" visage... with that cruel smile that couldn't be erased... with the insight of a knowledgeable louse, she insinuated... knowing more than she could comprehend... while life persisted in its tireless ruthless siege... her gills or cuticles or plaques heaving nonstop... look at the bloods, the lymphs, the goos, beating with an unstoppable monomaniacal... nitty gritty... obsession... again and again... pacy or apace... toward... toward...



I was afraid she would start asking "where..." I jumped, all spruced up, so bogus, optimistic, a triumph... I said, listen, let's fuck, let's forget about the shitty play, about the humiliation of the veins and such, about the horror of the outside... And then I became joyfully censorious: what...! fornicating during daylight! what a fucking sin!



she laughed... I was so relieved... I dove into her cunt... I licked the slender topaz above the entrance... sobbing with gratitude... she came in an explosion of giggles and yells... after a little while I heard her snore...



back with wobbly legs from my spelunking junket... I took to speculating about emulsions and emasculations... if... I said... if... a poisoner be the worst sort of murderer... what about the poisoners of our minds... all those preachers of self-hatred... all those worshipers of death... the religious creeps surrounding us like the infected rats of an ultimate plague...



I remembered the arcane arcadias elsewhere... how we drove the cattle safely into the mountain refuge... how the trucker told me his name... name's Ac Ac, he said... he added after a pause... a pause pregnant... "ac" means "shit" in our language...



perhaps he expected me act affronted or shocked, meekly tickled, sillily ticked off... instead I said: I guess it is as well to be... a double shit... when the rest of us are just a shit anyhow...



"I see you are an understanding lady", he said, the mongol guy... he had taken his tawdry worm out for me to have a go at a rocky suck... it is so poignant, isn't it...? women are as dumb as fishes... allured by the luring effect of the wiggling wriggling revolting worm... their mouth waters as soon as they see the soft lurid hook of the pulsating bait...



he was pleased with me... all the mongols in the convoy fucked me afterwards... I said: if scrawny Maura can fuck millions to exhaustion in a day, why couldn't we fuck a few less also with no detriment to our constitutions...?



afterwards their glances glanced off my skin all but reverentially, I'd say, obligingly... kind of shy... with awe... they were all exhausted, etiolated, ramshackle... and I as nothing... as fresh and dandy as a mountain flower just born... a fountain goddess... wiped clean... insofar as the squandering of one's juices went, mine had on the contrary probably gained in volume... whilst their levels had fallen beyond the red line... they felt empty, and somewhat hoaxed also, incapable to go dribbling about... their ponderous tread on the pebbles not arousing the smallest suspicion of a skip or skit or skid or scuttle or... spent... almost dead inside... the cattle meanwhile frowning, unattended, untidy, the sacrificial rehearsal unapplauded, without public... their play of death ignored...



overnight... with a single rolling of the dice that were their balls... I had become their totem of worshiped inviolate flesh... I woke busy... first inning on, I said, I'm hungry... thread the fangy needle of my thoughts and kill me a bull... I feel like a few steaks...



I chose the ballsier of bulls... I went to his perking ear: no use praying to the deaf, earless, divinities of death, buster; never any use in the event of impending deathblow, I told him... besides, males are palpably on the wane.




dimecres

two jaunts through tarry pipes







angry moths were emerging from the dark abyss... I was peering into Elzi's cunt... an intrepid scout enkindled with the thrill of sundry discoveries... all those quaint nooks and coings... and then I sunk deeper yet, fathoming the obscure zone... and it had happened: the sudden fright of those screaming moths big as bats... behind the batty cloud, an embryo... an embryo who, barely skipping a beat, from the size of a polliwog had risen to be at least a mighty prawn... prancing and squirming, the prawn grew to be a hippopotamus weighing who knows how many tons...



at its peak, a womb is a lopsided microcosm where simulacra either gambol happily or scrap by, depressed and half-suicidal, whilst certain quotas of determinate shapes are filled by the sedulous work of the tiny cellular employees whose decline would announce the end of the world as we know it... bribery of acquaintances and mysterious bureaucrats will carry you only so far... the rest is up to you... you alone, my darling strapping tyke, against the uncountable cruelties of the natural world... for instance... try to avoid like the bleeding devil the ravenous hunters... the army and its burly uncouth minions, always hunting, on the infamous prowl after down on the doldrums young bums... poor guys... ventilating with dirty gills, their collapsible ears utterly collapsed... the depressed clueless youth... and the fangy hunters bribing them into becoming legally-shielded murderers... and ultimately self-murderers, of course...



we women so strange sometimes... squeamish about eating bugs and beetles but delighted always to swallow the slimy spunk of a man's spout... a man's spout... an overextended clitoris that, in insectoid bursts, oozes now and then some disgusting excretion...



the dream was becoming silly... we women "unctuously constituted and thus more inflammable for pyral combustion..." – a memorable line, as I perhaps had read last night... women as cunts and wombs always... and fatty subcutaneous flammable stuff under the shiny hairless carapace... eggs in women’s shapes... carriers of an alien massive virus called the embryo... the hype and the upheaval of maternity... but in the end, all said and done, nothing but flesh subdividing into flesh... all that amount of soft pink becoming hard pitch black... a blood denigrated...



or, again, strangling a dick... murdered, bruised... crags appearing along the shaft... vessels bursting... who’ll suck on this...? the grotesque faces of the taunting tantalizing men... conceited hero (he raw)... erstwhile so self-sure down the avenue... and now look at him... rag-and bone, wretched, drenched in irrelevant goo... a busted groin and, in its middle, tortuous, covered in the tacky fuzz of fire-damp, the lame dick... hornswoggled by the scraggy snaggled teeth of a witch...



cobwebs of bile criss-crossing the broken-down lift... flawless nomad, though, I kept hard sledding... ripping across the pinker and pinker wrinkles... seeking the light... until...



but then I woke up... tried to tell Elzi about the dream... the journey up and then down the tube of her adventurous cunt... but I was by myself... I bridled at the thought... but here it was: the truth... begrudgingly, bitter, I remembered the irking accident... “be thou a survivor and thou shalt reap nothing but guilt...” somebody must’ve have said it already...



Elzi wasn't there of course... she was chez les fools... at the asylum for the insane... locked in...



all the fun we’d had...! and now...?



went to the window... looked down at the overgrown yard... a monk was there, standing, his eyes raised to the window behind which I spied... he was old... I payed heed, it behooved me...



I pictured him under the puce uniform... instead of a sphincter a prune or its pit; each cheek a peach pecked at by flees; a navel of novelty sequins and allhallowmas sweets; for ears and nose, cottoncandy and acrid saltpeter; no balls but tealeaves; a crushed and yet hirsute artichoke for a merkin; shins and chin of grape skin; anchovies for lids; the mammilae two resilient bumps of snail spit... the limbs... the limbs of hoods and weeds... and he’s back from the woods on his flowery skis... there he met the morbid dough, keen for treats... he became the creator – again, another...! – damn vice of men... – and the clumsier the more adept to try his klutzy paw at the impertinent game... – he contrived for eyes for the creature two chickpeas; for a loose tooth a bit of onion; an empty rind of gherkin for a wee-wee; black-seeded halves of watermelon for feet; for eyelashes apple parings; exploded mangoes for teats... medlars, toadstools, rotten eggs... with expertise he fashions thus his teeth... a tongue for wibbling made of quicklime and mercury... he strives to accentuated the perfection of his creation with the invention of a mind all of thick smoke... when the pudding’s thought to be as toothsome as you please, he realizes that all along and underneath he’s been seasoning his granny for the beast... it’d been, his great creation, it’d been... another granny disguised as by another priest...



“the fuck you want?” I said, opening the window.



the gargoyle looked terrified, timorous perhaps that I’d be so bold as to bother to come down and... as if I were to come down and ride him... too frail for farther ministrations of that sort... already hag-ridden as by his so-called virgin...



I’d be a mendicant sciolist whose poignant emerods, layers and layers of them that accrete with the seasons, make skating up or down my rectum the scraping of a wound the pain resultant of which the unraveling of the hurtling galaxies could never equal, he said, a glint in one of his eyes betraying maybe a humorous disposition in one outwardly so dour...



is alms you are asking for...? said I.



is that a brothel...? Have many babies been sacrilegiously inhumed in this oddly scented garth of yours...? answered he.



be a good monk and lift your skirts and show us your spinneret, I commanded, showing him a coin in case he acquiesced.



he did... typically, as any doll of his build, he lifted his skirts and his knob, an inch all told, propped up... as promised, I tossed for him to catch the fulgid coin...



also he did, alert enough, with his shambolic teeth (catch it...) then, as he put on his wonted far-away look, so fake... a yearning caught at the crinkles of my hollow... I almost fell for him... but then I checked myself... I’m not that hard-up...!



as with a swagger he turned tail to go, though... I screamed, stricken with desire... wait!



but again, before he turned his head, I had closed the window and drawn the shutters... now in darkness I brooded... having lost the purpose of my quest... my mind wavered... who creates whom, I wondered, appalled...





dimarts

a motherly teat with a set of twelve hands instead of a set of nipples







we were a bit top-heavy after we won a prize at the raffle... cavorting down to the town at the bottom of the canyon like two amazing amazons... we glad-handed the passers-by we our fake twelve hands that propped out, as nipples on a teat... the strange object we had just won at the raffle...



we were feeling pretty happy... dismissing the ostentatious auguries of an ugly sky menacing to burst... in an allegedly depraved mood, we had been yawing adrift for a few days... visiting the fairs and funfairs... drop me here, would you, buster, we'd say to the peasants who took us for a ride around the dry thirsty plains... we taunted them a bit... rumbles ensued, of a sexual nature most, but one or two obnoxious brawls also occurred... we were tough, though, and at the end not the worse for wear... I had lost a pair of trousers but a good farmer's daughter had some flowery flowing skirts of her that she wouldn't use no more and lent them to me...



now we were on the tricky slope down to the town... I remembered that coming up we had seen that poor old tottering guy trying to put a foot in front of the other, and not managing every time, neither, despite the help of his gnarled stick...



Elzi had warned me... see the creep...? never approach the bloody leper... ebb out of his unlucky shadow like from a shark's threatening fin... he... he used to be a nasty cop... protected by the law of the land, shielding like a brute and a coward behind his shield... he took to beating and murdering women and blacks, hobos, and the destitute, the poor and needy, and the petty thieves... your typical nazi gone to seed... he took to torturing like to sweet drink...



keep away from old bastard cop, she said... he stinks... and fragile, they are liable to pin his corpse on you... he's about to kick the bucket, might drop dead with a whisper or a breeze, a draft... wouldn't be near him, no sir, madam... giving away a whiff of death... you can smell him from this distance... gives me the willies... and she shivered demonstratively...



then we climbed to the plains... and looked for the fairs far and wide...



now we were approaching the town... martins flew in and out of their high-rise little octagonal abodes... the rabbits coughed at the door of their warrens... from the weirs wallowed already the whirligigs... the sky roared... its eructations nearer and nearer...



a dirty dust floated about... a storm brewing, no doubt...



and now we realized that the slope near the first road surrounding the town was grown with a new substance... like a growing of tall yeast... a yeasty growth... the footing wavering on it... the ground so slippery...



and at the side of the road there again (or there still) the old bastard cop... still trying to reach somewheres... but with such mortifying slowness...



look, the damned creep again...! Elzi seemed utterly repelled... I think I'll bail out a bit farther... over there... can't stand the rotten devil...



and then, as she took off athwart... I saw her back... her back diminishing in the horizon as the veil, unfurled, of a vessel at sea... and me at this thoughtless instant... I slipped over the strange substance... that somebody must have dumped there overnight... a dump of mushroomy fungoid stuff... sandy, gritty...



on the road a gray car passed lifting a cloud of dust... and then the avalanche caused by my sliding down the incline... the spillage of mushy sand caught the old crummy man underfoot and made him flop down...



another yellowish car passed and now instead of dust it splashed that disgusting ocher porridge over the fallen disjointed puppet... I was really sorry for him... a discarded broken doll, full of vermin and shit...



I reached the road and went over to assist the geezer... Elzi nowhere to be seen... migrated elsewhere... I went to the little crinkling decrepit old fellow... he'd fallen badly down, all crumpled... obviously dying...



and then... I heard it... delightful... there was music coming from within his head... through the huge hairy opening of his right ear... he'd fallen on his left side, me gingerly propping him a little with my left arm...



and the music pouring out of the hairy opening... I asked him nicely: what is this music...? is so enticing, heart-warming...? "I hear nothing," he croaked, "don't hear a thing..."



it was a marvelous song... a 1920's crooner's or chansonnier's... a mild and joyous melody... but he wouldn't hear the song in his own head... poor stinking bastard... I was full of pity for him...



so... I had an inspiration... I neared my face as much as I dared to his straining teary eyes... I'll sing the song, I said, raising my voice and enunciating most carefully... and this is what I did: I didn't sing at all... actually I didn't say another word... I just pretended to sing to him... opened my mouth and mouthed the words of the song that came from the hole in his ear, and I added a twinkle to my eyes and I brandished harmoniously my head... to the engaging rhythm...



and then the miracle... he smiled... he heard... I hear it now, he said, brimming, as if illumined... transfigured... for he heard the music from his youth... all the beautiful memories the song brought back landed, softly laden, on his conscience then... and he smiled... he smiled... like in a train... looking out the window... the passing of all the delicious images of his youth... the gentle rocking on the rails... as the music played and the singer bewitchingly sang...



he died in peace... a poor little old man...no longer corrupt.



dilluns

back from the old carousing






... it was getting dark when we were heading back from the concert... stranded now... after being dropped by the drunk nitwits... and neither Elzi nor I with a penny left... we decided to hit the road and hitch a ride...



a truck stopped to take us... but the guys inside refused to take us both... one is all we can handle, they said, you both look like trouble... I told Elzi to get in... I said: I'll wait for the next sucker... we'll meet back home...



so she went with the two truckers... and I waited, and another truck stopped and the two guys inside took me in with them...



it happens every time... you hitch a ride with those fellows, they will fuck you... we were not properly raped... so tired... after the excitement... the jumping, the quarreling... we knew what we were in for... we actually felt like it... we always do... at least I do, in those occasions... sexy... and then yes, I was ready for a bit of action... felt like having the... delicacy stroked... a bit of getting the skittish pussy appeased... a bit of the good going...



you practically never feel like being raped... not a bit... raping... not a bit, no... a bit of rough treatment, rough and nice... that's ok, fine... goes with the territory... but generally this... just the tickling down there made less... less itchy... and the fact was that... I didn't really know about Elzi at the time... but normally she's friskier, randier, than me... so... so, she probably was also eager to get... to be given the right cunt treatment... the worshiped cunt, that object of adoration, being rained over by the mists and the dews of the worshipful eyes, eyelets, of the one-eyed, monophtalmic, shapely little totems... I mean... the intriguing worshipers propitiating the niggling gadfly guarding with its magical key the entrance to the temple... some masterly thrusts are in order... that's the image...



anyway, my guys, my truckers, weren't what you'd call totally unbecoming... one of them... even somewhat fetching...



while one drove, the other one drove his drill home...cramming his tool... his screwdriver driving a beautiful releasing thankfully long-lastingly enough screw...



the problem was later... the long drive... night all dark in front... downtown still a long ways off...



one of the fuckers sleeping peacefully behind... me blinking, winking with sleep... wishing myself awake in case we missed the right place for me to stop and disembark... and then the guy at the wheel... starting to talk... a sinister tone... a creepy feeling crawling up my bruised spine...



and him somber... darker by the minute... and starting to rant, with a hollow voice... frightening now, really... a nightmare of sorts...



he once killed all his family... the wife, the kids... driven crazy by the night driving... truckers prone to such agonizing breakdowns... of course: all the terrors seen during the night... the specters, the accidents, the dead... the dead crushed... splattered into so many pieces of torn flesh...



and then the apparition... middle of the road... over all the mincemeat, the cadavers... an overpowering foul smell... the rotten archer... blind... his skin in tatters... the caverns instead of his eyes full of pus, oozing, a green rot... his teeth a shambles... the quiver slashed, punctured... the arrow splintered... pointing straight at the eyes of the nocturnal driver... you've got to become crazy, if you have any sense, if you are sane at all...



he arrived home... in the middle of a hurricane... trees uprooted, shutters flying about, babies smashed against the walls, rabbit cages colliding into each other... lost in a vortex of screams... a maelstrom of crossed purposes, frustrations... a raging battle of crossed wills and winds... somebody coming down the stairs... he shouted over the din... I won't be a night driver no more...!



he took his rage on all of them... the kids... the wife... tossed them into the storm... see how it is, driving by night... the constant carnage... the constant carnage... the constant carn...



he, the driver, the trucker-fucker fell on the wheel, his countenance one of utter despair...



hear me screeching... worse than the tires on the dead pavement... see me trouncing him out of the way... me pulling the breaks... the truck madly skidding...



I want out, I want out... my voice, hysterical... the sleeper waking up in a panic...



pounding me out of the way... managing to open the door... kicking now the suicidal fucker out of the truck altogether... and now him... the providential substitute choking the wheel... battling the inertia... the momentum... what have you... we were about to fall... the truck about to tumble down... there is... there is... what...? one can't see shit...



and now the shock... the guy stunned... the vehicle dead... the doors stuck... I'm aware of everything but can't really move... the oppression unbearable...



the apparition then... I saw her... it... the rotten archer... the rusted arrow aiming at the center of my forehead...



there was Elzi visiting me, at the hospital bed... as ever, kind to a fault... we kissed... damned fuckers, we said, bad guys, they don't want only your cunt... they almost took a life that time... are they ever really satisfied...?



diumenge

everybody suspects it's just mild platonism






... but no... it's real love... is like that time when people... people were all in a line, waiting to exit the real swanks' protected enclosure... they were waiting for the iron door to open, so that now that it was a sunny morning they could get to the business district... to... to operate...

not one of them saying a word of rebuke... to the fucker... the fucker who kept on ramming Elzi...

I went behind him and... started strangling him... hard, hard, the nails of my right hand boring into his windpipe...

and he was smiling, the fucker... and I was smiling... and the people on the line... no effect whatsoever... just looking bored...

who probably was not smiling was Elzi... Elzi... under the straining body of the massive fucker...

... the smiling... his and mine... the smilings going on forever... the queue not moving at all... Elzi under his hardening hard-on... the extreme monstrous hard-on of a dying smiling brute...

the struggle... the struggle...

everybody who cared to think other stuff besides the business at hand... thinking probably what a mild pantomime... a harmless little bit of "happening" theater... a silly prank?

we had... we had entered the rich folk's compound under false pretextes... we had... we had gotten hold of an amphora... we had pissed in it... Elzi and I laughing all the time... nice white wine... and perfumed... n'est ce pas?

there was a fat important-looking burgher trying to enter then... we two fast behind him... pink as him if not pinker... and the doorguards mum... we showing... making a show of... the amphora and the very expensive wine inside... entering on behalf of the impressive bejewelled burgher... probably having a party tonight... needing such expensive select assorted wine... as that... that one we carried... our piss... sacred stuff, shit.

once inside... the burgher's feeling sick... he excuses himself... wraps himself with a blanket... starts... with scaring wheezings... on the lintel... dozing... while there appears who... his son...?

a muscle man... he tries the wine...


... calls us whores... that's not a proper wine for a... such a rich exquisite family as...

... he slaps me... the amphora breaks... it cracks, really... lets the sacred wine leak off... and...

he takes Elzi from behind... pierces her asshole...

... he's a jolly good fellow... he laughs and smiles while slapping the whores or buggering them... you get slapped or buggered willy-nilly... in spite of the poor protests...

... cruelly... cruelly, he was taking Elzi from the rear...

I went behind him and I started strangling him... he was retching... but smiling... and pumping... pumping in his death throes... pumping Elzi's asshole...

to our dingy whereabouts we retreated afterwards... two more insensitive money-grabbers added to the exiting queue... the brute's jizzm getting stale in Elzi's rectum...

hiking, she and I, down the creek, toward the bullet-riddled walls, the burning mattresses, the flee-ridden clothes, the... vice suburbs... home... where we hid for a while

applying remedies... I was... soft creams... to Elzi's rere... so tender... bleeding... I was smiling... as when the strangling had taken place... such a rewarding image now in my mind.



 


dissabte

when did it happen?





ah, yes, I remember now... It happened when me and Elzi were in the bathtub and we were cavorting and enjoying ourselves, splashing and frolicking... when, unbeknownst to us, he had entered the room... like a bloody psycho...



the shouts... the fright...



he said, the fucker, said, sorry, I didn't mean...



but since that day my heart sputters, the patterns of its spitting and its bizarre pitter-patters are worrisome, and my brain... my brain has quit functioning as per regular...



and Elzi... Elzi had it worse... now and then me and the fucker go visit her in the crazies' asylum... but I've never allowed the fucker to be seen by her again...



his monstruos pate, imagine...



I only hope that someday Elzi's as well as me - who, pretty bad as I am, at least I'm better off that her, brain-wise, I mean...



so, I was going to add something, I had intended to say something deep, but explaining the reason of my slow going, neurons-wise, I've forgotten what... the... hell... I...



ah, yes, the shower and the great fright...



no, it wasn't that...



it was something else... else... Elzi... the commotion... the bathtub... the fucker excusing himself like the shit he is...



no... not there....



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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