For Every Tib and Tom Cat

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.



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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